


Here's to living life miserable

by whitchry9



Series: The Death of Me [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Blind Character, Depression, Disabled Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Hypomania, Medication, Mental Illness, Secret Identity, Self Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Vigilantism, but only as considerations and not actually seriously, drunk crying avocados, mental health, mental health care, precanon, slight au for some episodes, some mentions of child abuse like things (because stick is a dick)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-04-14 06:28:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 27,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4554270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt realizes he may be a bit depressed, but he figures that's just a side effect from hearing so much suffering every night.<br/>He's not sure what's up with Foggy though, and he's determined to find out.</p><p>AKA the best damn avocados, on their journey through mental illness together. Also, law school and vigilantism.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This one managed to be so much longer than the other one and I don't know how. Like, 7k longer. Sigh.
> 
> Doesn't require reading the other one first, probably.
> 
> A lot of the conversations are taken from the other fic, so if they sound familiar, that's why.

Matt was concerned about Foggy. He usually had low level concern for Foggy pretty much permanently, because it had been so long since he'd had someone else to care for. He just wanted to get it right.

But on occasion, his concern would increase, seemingly along with Foggy's mood.

Because sometimes, Foggy would seem almost too happy. And Matt wasn't just talking about in comparison to him, because he knew that he was a lot more reserved. Foggy was just generally a happier person. But sometimes he seemed too happy.

Was that a thing? Could a person be too happy, or was Matt just projecting his feelings onto him. Because he was never that happy (or happy, full stop), so surely there had to be something wrong with Foggy that made him so happy. It couldn't be natural, right?

 

But then there was the whole probably depressed thing that he was still working on trying to deny. And if he accepted that Foggy was just a normal amount of happy, then surely he had to be depressed.

 

It wasn't fair to bring Foggy into the whole thing. Because Matt knew it before Foggy came along, before he got the best roommate he'd ever had. It had been in the back of his mind for... oh, probably years now. He'd probably had it, lurking at lower levels in his mind throughout childhood, after the loss of his sight, his father's death, Stick leaving him. (Everyone leaves him.)

And in the last few years, it had gotten worse, despite Matt doing what he'd always wanted to, attending school to become a lawyer. Getting into Columbia law.

But he still...

He wasn't happy.

 

Matt knew he was probably depressed. Knew it like he knew braille, how to sign his name so it was mostly legible, how to get from his residence room to his classes. He even knew that he'd probably been depressed for a while, on and off.

But he just couldn't quite convince himself that it was worth doing something about.

 

He knew that it wasn't exactly normal to struggle to get out of bed in the morning. Sometimes on weekends he would stay in bed for days, but during the week he would wrestle with insomnia, unable to sleep for days. He sometimes couldn't bring himself to eat because he just didn't feel hungry, couldn't be bothered with the effort that getting food involved. During the worst times, Foggy would bring him food or throw food at him, and he would eat it because his friend had gone to all that effort.

He knew those were symptoms of major depressive disorder. (Because he'd done research, concerned about Foggy, and somewhat resigned to finding out what was up with him.)

 

So Matt knew what depression was, and knew that the venn diagram of depression symptoms and his behaviour was pretty much a circle, but he just wasn't sure.

So he didn't so anything about it, and just kept going as well as he could.

 

Because what if he was wrong? What if this was just how people felt, all the time, and he was weak for thinking it was anything else?

 

_The mind controls the body,_ Stick told him, over and over. His mind was too busy controlling his body that it had no time for itself.

Or something. How was he to know?

 

But he was still concerned about Foggy. Even if Matt was depressed, Foggy's moods were still too extreme.

And as Matt's only friend, he would be subject to his entire share of worrying. Matt didn't make the friendship rules; that's just how it was.

 

So he prepared to turn his worrying up a notch. The only thing was, apparently Foggy had the same idea.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They got drunk that weekend. Not hardcore drunk, drinking to forget all their problems, but just enough to get buzzed and lose their inhibitions. Afterwards, Matt realized that Foggy had probably done it so they could have the conversation.

 

“Matty,” Foggy began. He sounded seriously.

He propped himself up on Matt's bed. Why they were both on his bed, he had no idea. Matt was sprawled out, wondering why he hadn't taken his glasses off, and wondering if it was really worth the effort.

“I think you might be depressed,” Foggy continued.

And that... okay, that was kind of like a bucket of cold water being dumped on him. And Matt would know what that felt like because Stick had done it to him more than once. Not fun.

“What?” Matt asked, tilting his head towards his friend.

Foggy paused before speaking, and his words were pretty clear for someone who had been giggling only a few minutes earlier about... Matt couldn't even remember. So.

“Dude, you're like, the poster boy for depression. You either sleep a ton or not at all, you don't eat, you feel guilty about everything, like seriously, it's not your fault that some girl was stabbed in Midtown, really.”

_I could have stopped it,_ he thought.

“You hardly ever talk if I don't talk first, and you just seem... sad. All the time. And there was that one time I found you on the roof. Really close to the edge.”

Matt took a minute to remember the night he was talking about. He'd been up there listening, because their dorm was too loud and he couldn't hear well enough between the walls and the gossip and the sex and the moaning about papers due at midnight. So he went up to the roof.

Matt frowned. “I wasn't going to jump Foggy.”

“Yeah, you say that,” Foggy said. “But I don't know if I can believe you.”

He wasn't going to jump. At least not for the reason Foggy thought. He could hear the city crying out. Even on campus he could still hear cries for help, people suffering. It was nowhere near as bad as it was back home, but it still hurt him. So many sirens.

He couldn't tell Foggy that though, so he deflected.

“Well, if I'm depressed, then so are you,” Matt pointed out. “Like, half of those things describe you.”

“No, not all the time,” Foggy protested. “Half the time I'm just great. Super even. Like now. Now I'm super.”

His definition of super was different than Matt's, because Foggy's definition apparently included talking rapidly about the benefits of Punjabi over Spanish and deciding to cook stir fry at two am.

“When was the last time you slept?” Matt asked, turning to face Foggy. His glasses were still on, which he realized a bit too late.

Foggy shrugged, then corrected himself. “Dunno. Couple days. It doesn't matter. We're talking about you man. Cause I'm worried about you.”

 

Matt stayed still for a minute, and hoped that Foggy lost interest or fell asleep. Or maybe he'd think Matt had fallen asleep, because he didn't know how to talk about this. Couldn't.

 

“You didn't deny anything,” Foggy said softly.

Matt closed his eyes and considered how best to answer that.

“I can't,” he admitted. “You're right. About the things you saw, yeah. But... I don't know if I want to commit to a label like that. I don't know if I can.”

Things people had said, namely his father and Stick, ran through his head. He pushed them down. Go away drunken thoughts. Shoo.

Foggy set his head down on Matt's pillow. “You can't keep going like this though,” he told him. It was said into the pillow, muffled, but of course he heard it.

“Neither can you,” he replied.

Foggy shifted his head so it wasn't directly into the pillow anymore. “What do you mean?”

Matt didn't know how to say it any way other than directly. “What you're doing, going back and forth between two extremes, that's not healthy Foggy.”

“I'm not depressed,” Foggy told him. “I can't be. I'm too happy.”

Matt hummed. He knew that wasn't the only option. There had to be something else that fit Foggy's symptoms, and something that could be done about it.

“Will you talk to someone about it?” Foggy asked after a minute.

Matt sighed. “Yeah. But only if you do too.” He figured that was the best he could do. Suffering together, as it were.

 

“I'm not depressed,” Foggy said again, but it sounded futile.

“Foggy,” Matt sighed.

“Yeah, fine,” Foggy huffed. He shifted on Matt's pillow. “'M sleeping here tonight,” he mumbled. “Try and stop me.”

Matt hummed again. That was fine by him. He didn't have the energy to remove him.

 

* * *

 

Matt was up around noon the next day, and expected Foggy would be up shortly after as well. Except then Foggy proceeded to sleep until dinner time and Matt couldn't wait any longer to risk making food. Plus, the smell of food might wake Foggy up gently, so he wasn't in an awful mood.

Matt kind of wanted his bed back and didn't want to risk flying fists. Although to be fair, that had only happened once, and Foggy was having an elaborate dream involving snowmen.

Still, Matt knew he had all the ingredients for French toast, and started putting a batch together.

 

Foggy did indeed begin to wake up just as Matt put the first slice on their hotplate that they technically weren't supposed to have.

He rolled out of Matt's bed and started at Matt for a moment. “What are you making?” he asked.

“French toast,” Matt replied. He paused. If Foggy didn't remember the conversation, he didn't want to bring it up, but he was torn between not wanting to go to the doctor, and wanting Foggy to.

“Foggy, do you remember what we talked about the other night?”

Foggy considered him. “Um. I think I accused you of being depressed, and then agreed to something.”

Matt nodded. “That's along the lines of what I remember too. So. I guess we're going to the doctor?”

“Is that what I agreed to?” Foggy mused. Matt flipped the French toast over. He could smell when the one side was done. Foggy thought it was magic.

“Jesus, what time is it? What day is it?”

Matt felt for his watch. “Nearly five pm. Sunday.”

“Oh my god,” Foggy groaned. “I have that paper due tomorrow.”

Matt frowned. “I thought you finished it. Friday night. You stayed up all night, and you were typing pretty much the whole time that I heard.” Plus, there was some ranting about word counts that he'd blocked out.

“Huh.” Foggy said. “Maybe I did finish it. Either way, I'll call the health centre tomorrow and make appointments for us.”

“Us?” Matt asked. He scooped the French toast onto plates and handed one to Foggy. He sat down with the other.

“Yeah, that was the agreement. We both talk to someone.”

“That's not how I remember it,” Matt lied. He knew exactly how it went down.

“Too damn bad,” Foggy told him, brandishing a fork in his direction. He took a bite and practically hummed with enjoyment.

At last Matt had one food he could make.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Matt left early Monday morning to get in a workout before class in the hopes that it would give him some energy. It mostly ended up exhausting him before the day even really got started.

He headed back to their room to take a shower and mentally prepare himself for a day of class.

 

As soon as Matt stepped foot in the room, Foggy was talking.

“Hey Matt, I've got us appointments for next Thursday.”

Matt tossed his gym bag on his bed, wracking his brain for an excuse he could use to get out of it. He came up empty. “Okay.”

“You're not going to back out on me are you? Cause you made a drunken promise. And I intend to hold you to it.”

Matt bit back the smile. Trust Foggy to keep drunken promises. Matt had half hoped he'd forget. He shook his head. “I'm not going to back out.”

Foggy was pleased. “Good. I've got a form you've got to fill out, which means I have to fill it out. I already did your basic info, but there's some of this stuff that I don't know.” He paused. “I probably should know if you have life threatening allergies or something.”

Matt grinned. It was kind of important, but he also would have mentioned it the first day, along with his major 'do not' list. “No allergies Foggy. I'm going to take a shower before class. There's time, right?” He felt for his watch. He was pretty sure he still had time, but he had a thing about being late.

“Yeah, as long as you're quick.”

Matt grinned at him. “Of course.”

 

He jumped in the shower, and wondered what the form could possibly hold. Family history probably, and the only thing he knew about his father was that he was prone to broken bones and bullet wounds, neither of which were genetic.

God, he had such a macabre sense of humour.

 

* * *

 

Foggy was waiting to quiz him as soon as he got out of the shower. Most of the things were an automatic no, as far as Matt knew.

 

“Seizures slash head injury slash epilepsy?”

Matt frowned. “Is that where blindness would go? Is that a head injury?” He didn't know if there was another category that it would fit better under.

Foggy shrugged. “I'll check it off, just in case.”

They moved on, and when they got to fractures and dislocations, Matt had to wrack his brain for what was important enough to mention versus what would just sound excessive and make Foggy worry.

“Um... I dislocated my shoulder before.” Multiple times, both shoulders. “And I've broken a couple bones in my foot.” And leg. “Oh, and some fingers. And my nose.” Repeatedly. Like Stick said, he didn't learn. “I think that's it.” A few assorted concussions, soft tissue injuries, possible rib fractures. Just normal childhood injuries.

“Oh, that's it, he says,” Foggy mocked. “Operations?”

Matt shook his head.

“Other. Oh, I guess that's where I'd put the blindness. Eh, it can be on here twice. Make sure it gets through to them.”

Matt grinned. It still probably wouldn't.

“Also, they ask about caffeine. I feel like writing 'law student' should be answer enough. Let's see... smoking, drugs... both no, right? Alcohol... I'll just write alcoholic, shall I?”

“Foggy no,” Matt moaned, rolling over on his bed. That was all he needed, for the doctor to think his mood problems were related to substance abuse. What a stereotype he would be.

“Calm down, I'm kidding. Hospitalizations?”

“Yeah, at nine.”

Foggy paused. “Is that when it happened?”

Matt nodded. He still remembered every detail, the beeping, the way the sheets slid over his skin and it reverberated throughout his whole body. He shivered a bit.

“Got it. Anything else?”

“Nope.”

“Okay, we're done then. Oh, and I put my info down for a contact, if that's okay.”

Oh. That was nice of him. “Yeah, that's fine. Thanks Foggy.” That was one of the things he'd worried about, since he had no family. If he ever did end up in the hospital, there was no one who needed to be called. Except now. Now it would be Foggy.

Matt wondered if he knew how much that meant to him.

“No problem. Now let's go. Gotta learn criminal law, am I right?”

“Almost always,” Matt grinned, for more reasons than just the one.

“Damn right.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

Matt would be the first to admit the week leading up to their appointments wasn't the best. Homework hadn't piled up really, it all just seemed too much. Everything seemed to happen at once, snowballing into a mass of panic that made both of them want to hide in bed and ignore the assignments and tests and readings. Unfortunately, it didn't work like that. Foggy's mood seemed to take a nose dive, and he only seemed marginally more happy than Matt in the days leading up to the appointment.

Matt still couldn't come up with any excuse to get out of it, plus there was that whole drunken promise thing, so he ended up following Foggy as he got slightly lost looking for the health centre that Thursday.

 

They made it there with a few minutes to spare.

“Just go sit man, I got this,” Foggy told Matt. He shrugged and found himself a seat.

 

He listened to Foggy speak with the receptionist and had his student card ready to hand to him. Foggy handed them over to the receptionist along with their completed forms, took the cards back after a moment, and returned with clipboards.

 

“We've got more forms to fill out,” Foggy told him. “And your appointment is first, so you need to get it done quickly.”

“Alright. What is it?”

Foggy paused. “'Patient health questionnaire.' That's super generic. 'Over the last 2 weeks, how often have you been bothered by any of the following problems?' The options are not at all, several days, more than half the days, nearly every day. The first one is... oh. 'Little interest or pleasure in doing things.'”

So basically it was asking about depression, but not in a way that was immediately obvious by the title. He didn't really want to make Foggy do it with him, but he also didn't want Foggy to think that he didn't trust him. Because he knew his score would be high.

 

Foggy shifted in his seat. “I dunno man, I feel like this is something you should fill out on your own. I can read it to you if you want, or you could probably get a nurse to do it. Confidentiality or whatever.”

Matt hummed. It would probably be for the best, and this way, it wouldn't feel like he was trying to hide things from Foggy.

“They could have had it in braille if they'd known you were blind. I can't believe that's not in your chart,” Foggy muttered.

“It's okay Foggy. I can handle it,” Matt assured him. It was just typical that it wasn't on file somewhere, since he was registered with disability services. Communication between various departments was never very high on any institution's radar.

He took the page from Foggy and made his way to the reception desk, smiling widely.

“Can I help you?” the receptionist asked.

“Yes, I've been given this form to fill out, and I was wondering if someone could help me with it? A nurse perhaps. My appointment is at 2.” He made sure the woman could see his cane, in case the point wasn't clear.

“Oh, of course. Let me just get Christine.”

Matt waited while the receptionist went to another room and spoke to Christine.

“ _There's a man out here who needs help filling out a form. He's blind.”_

“ _Of course.”_

He listened as the two of them came back down the hall together. The receptionist took her place at the desk, and Christine came over to him.

“Hello Matthew,” she said brightly. “I'm Christine, one of the nurses, and I'm here to help you fill out the form.”

Matt reached out for her arm, and she led him down the hallway into what he presumed was an exam room.

“There's a chair just to your left that you can sit in, and I can take the form from you.”

Matt felt for the chair and sat down, holding the clipboard out for Christine to take.

“Alright, now, so this is a patient health questionnaire, and I'm just letting you know before we start that anything you tell me is confidential, alright? So, over the last 2 weeks, how often have you been bothered by any of the following problems? The options are not at all, several days, more than half the days, and nearly every day. Got that?”

Matt nodded.

“The first one is little interest or pleasure in doing things.”

Matt considered the question. He knew he had to be honest with his answers. There was no point in lying to someone who was trying to help him, and he knew this was his chance. “More than half the days.”

Christine made a note on the page and moved on to the next question.

“Feeling down, depressed, or hopeless.”

“Several days,” he admitted.

“Trouble falling or staying asleep, or sleeping too much.”

“Nearly every day.”

“Feeling tired or having little energy.”

“I'm in law school, so nearly every day.”

“Poor appetite or overeating.”

Matt sighed. “Nearly every day.”

“Feeling bad about yourself or that you are a failure and have let yourself or your family down.”

“More than half the days.”

“Trouble concentrating on things, such as reading the newspaper or watching television.”

Matt heard the wince. “Sorry.”

“It's fine. More than half the days.”

“Moving or speaking so slowly that other people have noticed. Or the opposite, being so fidgety or restless that you have been moving around a lot more than usual.”

Matt didn't think that had happened. In Foggy, sure, but not him. “Not at all.”

“Thoughts that you would be better off dead, or of hurting yourself.”

Not really. Not seriously. “Not at all.”

Christine made another note. “That's all of the questions, so I'm just going to add up your total.”

 

She scratched something else down. “And because you indicated you do have some problems, I have to ask how difficult these problems have made it for you to do your work, take care of things at home, or get along with other people. The options are not difficult at all, somewhat difficult, very difficult, and extremely difficult.”

Matt considered it. He wouldn't go so far as saying 'very'. “Somewhat difficult.”

She nodded at him and made another note.

“Okay, so this form is all filled out. I'm going to go stick it on your chart for the doctor, and you can wait right here for him. Do you have any questions?”

“What was my total?”

“You had a total of 16.”

“And is that high?”

“Scores range from zero to 27, so it's not too high.”

“But high enough.”

“It does indicate a level of depression, but that's something you're going to have to speak with the doctor about.”

Matt nodded. “Okay. Thank you.”

 

Christine nodded at him again, forgetting he couldn't see it, and left the room. Matt sighed and slouched back in the chair. At least he didn't have to sit on the examination bed, with its crinkly paper that he could hear moving with every change in the air current. He shuddered at the thought.

 

The door opened shortly after Christine left and a man walked in.

“Hello,” he greeted. “I'm Dr O'Keefe. Are you Matthew Murdock?”

Matt nodded.

“Now, do you prefer Matt or Matthew?” he asked, sitting on a nearby stool.

“Matt is fine.”

“Okay. I have the questionnaire the nurse helped you fill out, as well as your medical history form. That's where I'm going to start with. So, you are blind. To what extent?”

“No light perception,” Matt told him.

“And what is the cause of your blindness? Is it congenital?”

“An accident when I was nine. Chemical spill.”

“And have you had any major side effects? Sleep cycle disorders, hallucinations?”

“Not really,” Matt admitted. He didn't mention the thing where his senses increased to superhuman levels, because that wasn't the sort of side effect that doctors generally looked for. Or believed.

“Okay. I just needed to check, because those sorts of things could play a role in your score on the patient health questionnaire.”

He set some of his folders down, and leaned towards Matt.

“So you're here to talk about depression.”

Matt shrugged. “My friend talked me into it. He was concerned.”

“Do you think he could be right?”

“Yeah,” Matt sighed. “I know that I am probably depressed, but it also doesn't seem like a huge deal. Because it's sort of always been there, so I've accepted it.”

Dr O'Keefe made a note. “Well, I've looked at the form you filled out. Your answers vary from not at all to almost every day, and your total puts you in the category for moderately severe depression. You didn't indicate any thoughts of hurting yourself or wishing you were dead, which is good, if you were telling the truth. Do you ever think about hurting yourself?”

Matt sighed. “No.”

“Okay. You do seem to have some issues with sleeping, your energy levels, your appetite, and staying focused, which probably interferes with your studies. What programme are you in?”

“Law. First year.”

“So that's got to be putting a lot of pressure on you.”

Matt sighed. “It's not like that. I enjoy what I'm doing.”

“So you don't think that law school is a stressor?”

“Not really.”

“Okay,” Dr O'Keefe conceded, making a note. “What about your relationships? With your family, friends, significant others.”

“I don't really have any family. My father died when I was ten, and I didn't know my mother. I'm not in any relationships, and my best friend is my roommate. He's the one who made me come here because he was worried about me.”

“He sounds like a good friend.”

“The best,” Matt agreed.

“So you wouldn't say that there is anything that could be leading to you being depressed, no outside stressor, no event that happened recently?”

Matt shook his head. It was more than that. It wasn't recent. He couldn't remember the last time he hadn't felt like this. It had become normal to him, his way of being so much that he'd simply accepted it. But now with Foggy, seeing how he had depressive episodes, but never quite stayed depressed, Matt had begun to realize it wasn't normal to feel like that all the time. Not that whatever Foggy was doing was normal, but at least it was closer.

“Okay,” Dr O'Keefe said, nodding. He made some more notes on what Matt presumed was his chart. He then considered Matt for a moment before leaning back on his stool.

“I do think that you are suffering from depression, and likely have been for a while. I'd like you to talk with someone else. We have a number of psychiatrists on staff, and I think it would benefit you to speak with one of them. I can also prescribe you medication, if that's something you're open to, but treatment for depression is best when it's a combination of medication and therapy. The visits would be covered under your student health insurance, if that's an issue, as would most of the cost of medication.”

Matt nodded, slowly. “I'd rather not go right to medication,” he admitted. “I've never been a big fan of it. A lot of the time it messes with my head, and I can't have that.”

“Okay. That's fine. A lot of patients prefer not to start with medication, and that's completely up to you. So would you be open to speaking with a psychiatrist?”

“Sure,” he agreed. Foggy wouldn't get off his back if he didn't do anything, and he didn't want to jump right to medication.

Plus, there was that thing where he did want to feel better, so...

“Okay. I'll let the receptionist know, and she'll call you as soon as she sets up an appointment. Your number was on the first form you filled out?” He flipped through the papers he was holding.

“I think so. My roommate filled it out. You wouldn't be able to read my writing,” he admitted.

“Yes, it is here. You should get a call in the next week or so, and if you do have any sort of emergency, they can make time for appointments the same day, so don't hesitate to call if you need to.”

He got to his feet and Matt followed suit. “Do you need help getting back to the waiting room? It can be a bit of a maze in here.”

“No, I'm fine,” Matt assured him. He remembered the route Christine took to get him there.

“Okay. You can also make a follow up appointment to see me again in about a month if you'd like, to discuss how you're doing. Or you can wait and call after your appointment with the psychiatrist. It's up to you.”

Matt nodded. “Thank you.”

“It's no problem. I hope you feel better.”

Matt nodded again. So did he.

Dr O'Keefe disappeared down a different hallway, and Matt could detect Foggy's heartbeat off in that direction. He headed the other way, back to the waiting room, and stood in front of the receptionist's desk.

“Hello again,” the receptionist greeted.

“Hello. He said that you would get me an appointment with a psychiatrist and then call to let me know when it was.”

The receptionist flipped through a folder. “Ah yes, he made a note. I'll be sure to call and set one up, and let you know ASAP. Sound good?”

Matt nodded. “Has my friend gone to have his appointment?”

“The one you came in with?”

Matt nodded.

“Yes, I took him back a few minutes ago. Do you need help with anything?”

“No, I'm just going to wait for him. Thank you,” Matt told her.

He headed back towards the chairs and sat in one. He wished he'd brought something to do. They had a torts test in about a week that he could be studying for. That was the thing about braille books, they were terribly inconvenient and not at all portable. Not like the digital version was any better, because he'd need his laptop, and either his refreshable braille display or his headphones. He sighed and tried not to listen in on any conversations behind the receptionist's desk, or to the discussion Foggy was having with the doctor a few rooms away.

 

By the time Foggy finished his appointment, Matt had almost been lulled off to sleep by the soothing hum of the very slow elevator nearby, and the subsequent mutterings by all the students waiting for it.

So he was a bit startled by Foggy kicking his foot. “Hey buddy. Give me a minute and I'll be ready to go.”

Matt nodded, and listened as Foggy went over to the receptionist.

“I'll make you an appointment with a psychiatrist, and call you to let you know when it is,” she told him.

“Thanks,” Foggy replied. He came back to Matt's side.

“Ready to blow this popsicle stand?” he asked Matt.

Matt raised an eyebrow. “Interesting choice of phrase. But I can't say no to an offer like that.” He stood up and took Foggy's arm.

He kind of wanted to ask how Foggy's appointment had gone, but wasn't ready for the quid pro quo that would go along with it.

 

When they were close to their dorm, Foggy's breathing changed, and Matt knew he was about to ask a question.

“So how did it go?” he asked.

“You should probably go to medical school,” Matt told him. “The doctor confirmed your suspicions.”

_And mine,_ he didn't add.

“And?” Foggy prompted, definitely hoping for Matt to continue.

Matt shrugged. “He told me there are medications. I'm not sure if I want to go that route though. He's sending me to a psychiatrist.”

“Me too!” Foggy interrupted.

Matt slowed. “Really?”

Foggy slowed down with him to match pace. “Yeah, he thinks I'm bipolar. Ridiculous, right?” His heartrate jumped. Foggy knew he was lying. He just wanted to be reassured that medical professionals could be wrong, that thing could still go back to the way they were. But they both knew they couldn't.

“I... I don't know,” Matt said finally. “It could explain things.”

“Yeah, I thought so too,” Foggy sighed. “I was just hoping you'd fight me on it, cause it'd make me feel better.”

Matt grinned. Typical. “Sorry buddy.”

Foggy sighed and picked speed. “You know, I could still make it to Punjabi.”

Matt stopped walking entirely. “You skipped Punjabi for this? You're already kind of failing it.”

“Exactly!” Foggy exclaimed. “One more class isn't going to make a difference. Come on Matt, let's be real here.” He slung an arm over Matt's shoulder and continued walking, dragging his friend along with him. Matt let him, with a great deal of reluctance.

“Besides, how many people in New York actually speak it? Not like it's going to come in that handy. Not like Spanish.”

“One day you're going to regret those words,” Matt told him.

“Probably,” Foggy agreed.

Matt grinned. It would be just their luck that one day, their lives would depend on the Punjabi class that Foggy had missed to drag his friend to the doctor. Fate was so cruel sometimes.

 


	4. Chapter 4

It was the next week before he got a call from the health centre with an appointment. He would be seeing Dr Keable, who apparently had experience with trauma in adolescents. So... that was something.

 

Foggy's call came the next day. Matt respected his privacy and only listened to the one side of the call. If Foggy wanted to share any information, he would.

Matt kept running his fingers over his textbook, not actually absorbing any of it, and listened as Foggy scribbled something down and hung up.

 

Matt tilted his head in Foggy's direction.“Was that the health centre?”

He heard Foggy nod, and correct himself a moment later. He bit back the smile. “Yeah. It's about the appointment with the psychiatrist. Apparently I'm going to see Dr Bianchi. Is that who you're going to see?”

Matt shook his head. “No, I'm going to see Dr Keable. Apparently she has experience with people who've been through trauma.”

“And they think you've been through trauma?”

“I guess,” Matt sighed. He shrugged. “I already did trauma recovery when I was younger.”

“Was it helpful?”

Matt thought back, about learning to accept his differences and make no apologies for what he lacked, no matter how much he wanted to. Even at nine, he knew it was useless.

“Not in any way that's actually applicable,” he admitted. “It was mostly BS.”

“Sounds about right. Do you think this'll be any better?”

Matt shrugged. “I guess I'll find out.”

“When's your appointment?”

“Week after next. You?”

“Same.”

Foggy sighed. “We have that torts test tomorrow don't we?”

_Oh Foggy, where have you been?_

Matt didn't say that though, and just nodded at him. “You might have figured that out if you'd been listening to me at all over the last couple of days. I've been reading the textbook almost nonstop.” He held up the book as proof. He was fairly certain all his braille books looked the same to Foggy.

“Your book all look the same to me,” Foggy groaned. “How was I supposed to know it was the same book?”

Matt hid the grin and shrugged instead. “I'm almost done this chapter, then we can quiz each other if you want.”

“I don't want to,” Foggy grumbled, “but I need to.”

Drama queen. Matt returned to reading, having to flip back a few pages since he hadn't actually read the last few.

 

Foggy laid on his pillow sulking for a few minutes, but he did get up and start studying shortly after.

They quizzed each other into the night, and Matt was pretty sure Foggy didn't sleep at all.

 

(He did manage to get a good mark, and Matt was super proud of him considering he'd started studying the night before. Foggy still seemed miffed that Matt had aced it, but he reminded Foggy that he'd started studying weeks earlier.)

 


	5. Chapter 5

Matt wouldn't say that he was anxious about his appointment with the psychiatrist. He just wasn't looking forward to it.

 

It was during the afternoon, when Foggy had Punjabi and he had Spanish, so at least he wasn't missing any important classes. Not that Spanish wasn't important, because it was, but it wasn't a law course, and he also knew most of the content. Apparently high school could be useful for some things.

 

So he showed up for his appointment and found the office all on his own, a detail which Foggy was concerned about. (“I don't mind missing Punjabi,” he'd said. “I can walk you there.” Matt smiled and shook his head. Foggy had already missed too many Punjabi classes on his behalf.)

 

But he found the right office and checked himself in with the receptionist, who took him to a room and he sat down on a comfortable chair. He was told that the doctor would be in shortly.

Matt nodded.

He took the time to familiarize himself with the room. Besides the chair he was sitting in, there was a rolling chair behind a desk, a sofa against a wall, another comfortable chair, and what he assumed was a wall of bookshelves, if the scent was anything to go by. He did love the smell of old books. He missed them. Braille books never had the same smell or texture to them. Maybe he would get Foggy to take him to the library one weekend, let him just roam through the stacks and run his hands over the pages. Of course, most of them he could read, with a lot of focus, but that was something Foggy couldn't know about.

 

“Matthew?”

A door opened, and a woman stepped in. Too much perfume, although that was based on his senses. Nice though.

He looked up. “Hello,” he greeted, holding out a hand.

She took it. “Hello Matthew. I'm Dr Keable. How are you doing?”

Matt shrugged, and she sat down in the comfortable chair across from him. “Not bad. How are you?”

“I'm well. Now, before we get started, do you prefer Matthew or Matt?”

“Matt is fine.”

“Okay. Dr O'Keefe sent me over the notes from his meeting with you, and I also have the results from the questionnaire you filled out. We'll get to that in a bit, and I might ask you some more questions, but I'd like to start with your history first.”

Matt nodded, and she continued.

“The notes I have from Dr O'Keefe say that you were blinded at the age of nine in a chemical spill. Can you tell me about that?”

Matt closed his eyes behind his sunglasses and took a deep breath. Of course that's what she went for first.

“We don't have to talk about it,” she offered.

Matt shook his head. “It's alright.” Lying. “I grew up in Hell's Kitchen. It wasn't the best place. When I was nine, there was an accident in the street in front of me. A truck carrying some sort of chemicals was... out of control in the street. There was an old man, I don't know if he didn't see it or whatever, but he was standing right in the path of the truck. So I pushed him out of the way. He was fine, except for some cuts and bruises, and I was mostly fine too, except whatever the truck was carrying spilled all over my face and eyes. The last thing I saw was my dad. After that, nothing.”

He blocked out her scribbling notes.

“Did you know the man?”

Matt shook his head. “Not at all. I just saw him, and realized that he was probably going to die if I didn't do something.”

“Do you ever regret it?”

Matt frowned. “Saving him? No. I mean, I know that the two events are linked, but I wouldn't let him die just to have my sight back. I miss it, but not enough that I would condemn a man.”

She hummed. “Does your family have a history of mental health problems?”

Matt shrugged. “I don't really know. I didn't know my mother, and my father wouldn't talk about her. I didn't know her parents, don't even know if they're alive, and I don't have that many memories of my father's mother. I know she was strict.”

Matt remembered saying grace before dinner, cracks across his knuckles when he came home from school bruised and scraped from roughhousing on the playground, his mouth washed out with soap the first time he repeated one of his father's more colourful words.

“She passed away when I was six or seven, I think.”

“And your father?”

“He's also deceased.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

Matt didn't respond, and she continued.

“I'm sorry, but I have to ask. How did he die?”

“He was murdered.”

He heard her wince. “Did he have any history of mental health problems?”

“None that he told me about, but then I was ten when he died, so it wasn't like he'd share those things with me.”

He didn't tell her that he'd sewn his father up, shared whiskey with him before he even lost his sight, stayed up late to make sure he got home alive until the night he didn't. Those weren't exactly signs of mental stability, and he didn't want to have to defend his father against a woman who never met him. His father had faults, sure, but he tried hard and wanted the best for his son.

“Okay, let's focus on you now. Have you been to therapy before?”

Matt sighed. “Yes. I was in trauma recovery after I lost my sight, and then again when the nuns thought I wasn't adjusting well.”

“Can you explain what you mean by that?”

“The nuns thinking I wasn't adjusting well?”

“Yes.”

“After I lost my sight and my father died, I had a hard time controlling my senses. I was easily overwhelmed by stimuli, and some days I spent curled up in bed trying to block it all out. If it happened these days I would probably be diagnosed with a sensory processing disorder, but at the time they thought it was something psychological.”

“Did therapy help?” Dr Keable asked, making more notes.

“No,” Matt replied, shaking his head.

“You're obviously coping much better now in regards to your senses. What happened?”

“I was... I guess you could call it trained. He showed me how to control what stimuli I took in, how not to be overwhelmed.”

“Who is he?”

“A mentor, I suppose. He didn't stay for very long. I guess he thought I'd learned all I could.”

Did he sound bitter? He hoped he didn't sound bitter.

“Did he die?”

Matt shook his head. “No, he just left.” He had no doubt that Stick would live forever, just to show up when he was down and kick him when he tried to get back up. (He wasn't bitter. Honestly.)

 

Matt listened to her scratch down some more notes before she pulled out a different sheet of paper.

“I'd like to move on to why you're here today. Dr O'Keefe noted that you'd gone to see him because you were concerned about depression.”

_No, because my roommate was concerned about me having depression, and I was worried about him having something else, so we agreed to both go in order to prove each other wrong. Look how well that turned out._

Matt nodded.

“And based on the questionnaire responses, he suspected that you are suffering from depression, somewhere from moderate to severe.”

Matt shrugged. “He said that's what the score suggested.”

“Yes, you scored 16, which is in the range for moderately severe depression. I'd just like to ask some follow up questions, since your responses varied widely. You indicated having sleeping problems nearly every day, as well as feeling tired nearly every day. Could the tired feeling be related to your issues sleeping?”

Matt shook his head. “Sometimes I can't sleep, sometimes I can. My energy level doesn't seem to change depending on the amount of sleep I get.”

“Fair enough. You also indicated not having interest or pleasure in doing things. Can you give me an example?”

Matt tilted his head, thinking of a good example. “I like books on tape. They're easier to get than braille, and usually they're pretty well done, better than a screenreader. But lately,” (as in the past couple of years, at least) “I haven't been able to follow a plot.”

“And how long has that been going on for?”

“I can't remember,” Matt admitted.

“Okay. And what about feeling down, depressed, or hopeless. You indicated that you felt this way several days. Can you expand on that?”

“I don't know, I just... can't see things getting better. I know that I have things to look forward to, but I just... don't. Getting out of bed is hard, because I honestly don't know what will change if I do.”

She nodded, but didn't say anything. “What about difficulty concentrating? Do you find it difficult to pay attention in class or get your homework done?”

“Sometimes,” Matt sighed. Often it was because he got distracted by something he could hear, or the girl four seats over who'd practically bathed in her perfume again.

 

“And what about feeling bad about yourself, or feeling that you are a failure or you've let others down. You indicated you felt that way more than half the days.”

Matt shrugged.

“I can't help but feel that if my father was around, what I've done wouldn't be enough for him.”

“In what way?”

“Well, he always pushed me to work hard in school and do my best, and to not focus on athletics, because that's what he did.”

“You're at Columbia. I'd say you did a good job in school.”

Matt tried to smile. “Yeah, but it's still not enough.”

He didn't know how to explain it, but he still wasn't doing well enough. His grades could be better, and probably would be if he could bring himself to get out of bed with any sort of consistency.

“And my mentor... he would be so disappointed. I don't even know what he would say.” Matt shook his head. Stick had never wanted him to go to college or pursue any sort of education.

“ _The things you need to be taught don't come from books Matty,”_ he'd said.

“Are you in contact with him anymore?”

Matt shook his head. “No.”

“So it shouldn't matter what you're doing. He's not a part of your life anymore.”

Matt knew that was true. It was logical. But he couldn't help the way Stick's voice would echo in his head, judging him, telling him how disappointed he was, letting him know how big a failure he was.

He shrugged.

She probably sensed he wasn't going to elaborate, because she moved on to the next question. “You indicated that you didn't feel slow and lethargic, or the opposite, fidgety and restless, correct?”

Matt nodded.

“Those are more symptoms of a different disorder, and they're just there to rule out a differential diagnosis, so it's nothing to worry about,” she assured him. “You also indicated that you didn't have thoughts of harming yourself, or thinking you'd be better off dead.”

Matt shook his head. “Nope.”

To be honest, he was sort of lying. He thought about being dead a lot, what the world would be like without him, if anyone would miss him. How much easier everything would be.

But he never thought about it seriously, about doing it or how. It wasn't so much a destination as it was an option near the bottom of the list. Only once he'd exhausted everything else would he reconsider it.

And he didn't want to explain that, so he just said no.

And as for hurting himself, not really. Sometimes he thought he would deserve some sort of punishment, but he never went so far as to purposely inflict it.

(Perhaps it was a leftover from his training with Stick, expecting physical punishment for not achieving high enough. Maybe that was the real reason he wasn't doing as well as he could have been, because there were no consequences for failing.)

“Matt?” Dr Keable asked.

“Sorry, I was distracted.”

“I was just asking about your appetite. I realized I skipped that one.”

“It's not really there,” he admitted. “I'll eat, but it's more because I know I need to than out of any sense of hunger.”

She nodded and wrote something else down. “Well, that brings us to the end of the questionnaire you filled out. Do you have anything else to add that you think might be helpful for me to know and wasn't covered yet?”

 

Matt considered that. There was probably a lot of psychological damage that Stick had caused, buried deep and internalized, but he really didn't have the energy to unearth all that. There was also the theme of people leaving him (his mother, his father, Stick, the various families that never adopted him) that probably meant something.

He thought about the time Foggy found him on the roof and automatically assumed he was up there to jump. He considered how he could hear people crying out for help, and how every time he heard sirens he felt like he'd personally failed them.

 

He smiled at her. “No, I think that's it.”

 

She nodded. “Okay. So I do think you are depressed. I'm going to diagnose you with major depressive disorder. So what we need to talk about next is treatment options. Do you have any idea about how you'd like to proceed, or do you need me to give you some options?”

Matt tilted his head and considered it.

 

He wasn't sure how he felt about the diagnosis. It was kind of nice to have confirmation that what he thought was true, that he wasn't making it up or exaggerating his feelings. But in another way, the victory felt hollow. After all, what sort of victory was it to be diagnosed as depressed?

 

But he was supposed to be considering treatment options.

“I'd rather not try medication yet,” he said slowly. “I know that it's usually effective, but I don't want to start with it.”

“And that is entirely up to you. I would like to tell you that medication and therapy combined are a more effective treatment for depression than either of them alone.”

“Dr O'Keefe told me that,” Matt responded evenly.

She nodded at him. “And he's right. I'd just like you to be aware of that before making any decisions, not that you have to make any today. However, if you are going to veto medication for now, you should try some therapy. You could continue to come seeing me, or you could visit a therapist elsewhere. We have a number of them who are attached to the health centre.”

Matt nodded. “I'd like some time to consider my options,” he told her. Non-committal. Easy to back out of.

“Of course. So unless you have anything else you'd like to ask, anything to talk about, I can let you go. I'm sure you have classes to be getting back to and studying to do.”

Matt nodded. That he did.

She continued. “I would just like you to know that you should trust yourself. Trust your emotions. No one else can invalidate the way you are feeling. They can't tell you you're feeling something wrong, but neither can you. Stop trying to police your own emotions and just let them happen. You think you can do that?”

Matt wanted to say he had no idea what that meant, but on some level, he did.

He just nodded instead.

“Thank you,” he said finally. “I'll be sure to call if I decide anything.”

“That's all I can ask,” she responded, getting to her feet as he stood up, unfolding his cane. “Do you need help finding your way out?”

“No, I'm fine thank you.”

She held the door open for him and Matt tapped his way down the hall and out of her office, back into the rush of campus.

 

He had to face Foggy, and he wasn't sure what he should say. He knew he wasn't obligated to say anything, but he'd probably ask, and he didn't want to lie. He also didn't want to face the truth yet either.

 


	6. Chapter 6

He returned in the sort of mood that exuded 'don't talk to me' and Foggy did pick up on that.

 

Foggy's appointment was scheduled for the next day, and it didn't escape Matt that his roommate didn't sleep well that night. Nerves, perhaps.

He was anxious throughout his morning classes as well, and Matt could tell Foggy was relieved when he skipped torts instead of leaving halfway through. Matt would take notes, and read them to Foggy later. Or perhaps Foggy would just forget about the class, and blank on the exam.

Matt vowed to not let that happen.

 

He met up with Foggy in their civil procedure class. “Hey,” Matt said. “I've got the torts notes for you. Don't let me forget.”

Foggy nodded. “Yeah,” he added. He seemed distracted, and Matt couldn't blame him. If his visit was anything like his own, he'd be reeling for a while.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“So I'm on medication now,” Foggy said, offhandedly, like he hadn't been working himself up to saying it for a good half hour.

Matt hesitated. He wanted to know what the medication was for, but wasn't sure if asking would be too insensitive. “What for?” he said finally.

Foggy sighed. “He agreed with the clinic doctor. I'm officially diagnosed with bipolar type II.”

Matt tilted his head before nodding. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Foggy shrugged. Matt waited for him to say something. “Not really,” he added after a moment.

“Well, I'm here if you do,” Matt concluded, turning his attention back to his laptop. He hoped Foggy would let the conversation go and not ask how his visit went. He really didn't want to talk about it.

 

* * *

 

Matt noted when Foggy took his medication, and when he changed his dosage. He might have run his fingers over the drug labels while Foggy was out, just so he knew what he was taking, in case of emergencies.

 

A week later, Foggy increased his dose, just like the label had said, and Matt was pleased that Foggy was sticking to the doctor's orders. He pushed down the thought that he should be doing the same thing, and focused on studying for his first exam, even though it was still some time away.

 


	7. Chapter 7

That weekend, Matt noted that Foggy was restless, studying Punjabi for a few minutes before moving on to something else, browsing the internet with disinterest before switching to something new. He debated asking Foggy if something was wrong, but he didn't want to pry, and exams were coming up. He didn't seem to be exhibiting symptoms of a hypo-manic episodes, because of course Matt looked it up, and he didn't want Foggy to think he was being overprotective by asking if he was alright.

 

So he got ready for bed and was mostly asleep while Foggy was still ricocheting from one thing to another.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Shit,” Foggy muttered across the room. It was enough to drag Matt out of sleep and to the brink of consciousness.

“Foggy?” he muttered, raising his head up a bit.

“Sorry. Go back to sleep. I'm just a bit... restless. Sorry.”

Matt nodded. Seemed legit. He rolled over and drifted off again.

 

He woke up again to Foggy whispering his name.

“Matty I think I need to go to the hospital,” Foggy said quietly.

Matt shot out of bed. “What is it?” He didn't need to ask. The scent and taste of blood were immediately apparent in the air. Foggy was bleeding. The only real question was why. “Oh,” he whispered. “I'll call a cab.”

Foggy nodded without saying anything. Shock, maybe. He was holding one of his wrists. Did that mean he did it to himself?

He grabbed his phone and headed into the bathroom. He knew he had first aid supplies somewhere, so he could patch up Foggy for the trip to the hospital.

He ordered a cab that would be there as soon as possible, and grabbed a roll of gauze from the first aid kit he kept under the sink.

“Fifteen minutes,” he told Foggy. “Are they deep?”

Foggy held his arm up. “No?” He didn't sound certain, almost dazed. That was more worrying than anything else. It couldn't be the blood loss yet, so it had to be something else.

Matt handed him the gauze. “Wrap it up.” He certainly couldn't do it, not without getting blood all over his hands.

Foggy obeyed. “I don't think the meds are working,” he said, wrapping his wrist up.

Matt's heart broke a little bit at that. He knew that Foggy had hoped the meds would make things better, or at least not worse. He didn't know what to say. “No,” he sighed. “But it's okay.”

Foggy shook his head but didn't say anything. He reached the end of the gauze roll and tucked it so it wouldn't come undone.

Matt realized he was going to have to keep prompting him to get ready to go. “Are you dressed?”

Foggy shrugged. “Um. Mostly?”

Matt reached a hand out to touch Foggy's bare chest. “Shirt,” he reminded him.

Foggy nodded. His shirt must have been in his lap, because he pulled it back on over his head. Matt couldn't tell if there was blood anywhere else, not with the scent everywhere now, so he didn't ask about Foggy's other clothes.

 

He grabbed his cane, glasses, and phone before forcing a coat on Foggy and putting his own on. He checked to make sure Foggy was wearing shoes before he led him down the stairs to the outside of the dorm.

“Is the cab here yet?” he asked. Foggy shook his head, and Matt waited.

“Oh. I shook my head. Not yet.”

Matt heard the cab when it did pull up, and he helped Foggy in, making sure he did his seat belt up. Foggy seemed scattered, like he wasn't entirely there, and that was concerning.

 

Foggy burst out giggling, which was just super concerning. Matt frowned. “What is it Foggy?” he asked.

Foggy only shook his head and kept laughing. It took him a few minutes before he could form words.

“You're wearing pyjamas,” he told Matt.

Which, yes, he was, but why Foggy thought that was so hilarious, he had no idea.

Matt smiled in an attempt to appease him, but Foggy seemed to sag a bit. Matt wondered what he was thinking about, if he was blaming himself for this. Foggy was always better at accepting help than Matt was, but still didn't like it. But Matt didn't know how to tell Foggy that it was okay, that he didn't mind, that this wasn't a burden to him. Best friends were never burdens.

But he didn't have the words, so he just sat quietly trying to find something to say.

 

“A mixed state,” Foggy said, breaking the silence.

“What?” Matt asked.

“When you have hypomania symptoms at the same time as depressed symptoms. A mixed state. I think that's what this is.” Oh. Right.

Matt patted him on the shoulder. “We'll get this fixed.” He hoped he sounded sure of himself, just for Foggy's sake. But then again, he'd never been a very good liar.

Foggy slumped into his shoulder.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

The hospital wasn't far, and under better circumstances they could have walked, but with Foggy in such a state, and it being late at night, Matt didn't want to risk it. He paid the cab driver and dragged Foggy towards the entrance to the ER. Or at least he hoped it was the entrance. Foggy didn't object, which could have gone either way.

 

Thankfully, Foggy's brain started to kick in around that point, and he led Matt to the triage nurse, where he got a hospital bracelet and a set of vitals taken.

Foggy explained to the nurse how he'd recently started on new medication, and that he suspected he was having a mixed episode. Also the little issue of his bleeding wrist, which was muttered almost under his breath.

 

After that little revelation, Foggy was taken to a bed pretty quickly, where a social worker sat at his side the entire time. Matt had to leave for a while when the psychiatrist on call arrived to speak with Foggy, and he tried not to listen to their conversation. He did hear that Foggy shouldn't have been on those medications together, and he tried not to clench his fists so hard his nails broke through the skin on his palms. That would be hard to explain.

 

Foggy was given a different medication, and he fell asleep shortly after, and Matt was allowed back in his room.

“He's given us permission to share everything with you,” the nurse explained who came to get Matt and take him to Foggy's bed. “He's going to be treated as an outpatient, and we set up an appointment with his psychiatrist in the morning.”

Matt nodded. “Did he need stitches?”

“Nope. We cleaned the wound and bandaged it up. He's going to have to be careful about infection, but it should heal fine.”

“Thank you,” Matt said softly, finding the seat beside Foggy's bed.

“No problem. Call us if either of you need anything. The call button is right here,” she told him, leading his fingers to the button.

Matt nodded, and the nurse left.

 

Foggy was sleeping soundly, and Matt hoped that his mind was at ease.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Foggy's discharge papers went through, Matt woke his friend up.

“Hey buddy,” he said softly. “You're getting discharged.”

He helped Foggy out of bed, still half asleep and medicated. He couldn't help but run his fingers over the bandage on Foggy's wrist.

“You've got an appointment with your psychiatrist in an hour and a half,” he apologized.

Foggy sighed, but nodded. “Thanks.”

Matt patted him on the shoulder. “Come on. Let's get home. You might have time for a nap before the appointment, if you're lucky. I'll make French toast for when you wake up,” he offered, knowing how much Foggy enjoyed one of the only foods he could cook.

Matt took Foggy's offered arm, and they both led each other out of the hospital.

They took another cab back, because Matt was still in his pyjamas after all.

 

* * *

 

By the time they got back, Foggy had twenty minutes to sleep. Matt made French toast during that time, not having to hide his abilities so much with his friend asleep.

He woke Foggy with the plate of French toast.

“Come on Foggy,” he said patiently. “Eat your breakfast and I'll walk you over.”

Foggy accepted the plate. “What about... class?” he asked, waving a hand in the air. He frowned. “What day is it?”

“Criminal law. And I don't care.”

 

Foggy ate his food, and Matt delivered him to the clinic before heading to criminal law.

 

Before the end of class, his phone vibrated. As soon as class ended, Matt listened to the message. Foggy would be skipping contracts to sleep, but he'd go to his afternoon classes.

Matt approved. Sometimes rest was the best recovery, even if the injury wasn't entirely physical.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

Foggy continued to go to his daily appointments with his psychiatrist. Matt didn't feel the need to walk Foggy to every single one of them, since his mood did seem to be improving. He was tired definitely, but he was more mentally present, which was good.

By the time the weekend rolled around, Matt had to talk Foggy into changing the bandage. Foggy had changed it a few times when Matt wasn't around, and had also attempted to scrub the blood stains out of his sheets, but he seemed to have forgotten in the past few days. Matt wondered if Foggy was on a downswing, or if it was just the side effects of switching medications.

 

Either way, Matt helped him with it, just like he'd helped his father so many times.

“It's a... pattern,” he realized, fingers lightly touching the scabs on Foggy's arm.

He felt Foggy wince. “Yeah,” he sighed.

“It's healing well though,” he told him.

Foggy scoffed a bit. “Jesus, you've got magic fingers now?”

“Language,” Matt reminded him. It was more a joke between them than anything else.

Foggy sighed. “Sorry.”

“And I can feel the scabs,” Matt continued. “Not unlike braille.”

Foggy hummed. Maybe that was a strange thing to say. Normal people didn't feel their friend's skin trying to feel out patterns and words. Matt moved on. “It doesn't need to be wrapped up again. You can leave it open to the air. It'll help.”

“Thanks,” Foggy muttered.

“Are you doing okay?” Matt asked gently, because he didn't actually know. It was hard to tell what Foggy's mood was these days.

“Are you?” Foggy retorted.

“Don't deflect,” Matt scoffed. He really didn't want to get into how he was doing when Foggy was clearly suffering.

Foggy considered that a moment.“Not sure I'd go as far as okay. Better, definitely. Tired,” he added.

Matt listened carefully, but couldn't hear any indication that Foggy was lying. He nodded.

“And you?” Foggy asked.

Matt shrugged. “No complaints here.”

Foggy sighed. He probably suspected Matt wasn't telling him the whole truth, but neither of them wanted to push it.


	10. Chapter 10

Not long after, in the pre-exam rush, Foggy invited him for Christmas. They were in the middle of studying when he brought up the subject.

 

“So what are you doing for the holidays?” he asked, tossing a book aside.

Matt stopped reading his criminal law book to consider the question. “I don't know. Church. Food. Why?”

“You could come home with me. The Nelson clan has heard a lot about you, and my mom's been asking when she's going to meet you.” He said it casually, like it was no big deal to just invite a guy over you'd only known for a few months.

“You... tell them about me?” he asked, instead of wondering why Foggy thought he was worth bringing home.

“Um, yeah. It's not like they want to hear about this,” Foggy scoffed, gesturing to his bed. “I just pointed to all the school stuff.”

Matt hummed, considering it. “I don't want to intrude.”

Foggy propped himself up. “Dude. You know how many people we cram into our house? You won't even be noticed amongst all the random relatives.”

Matt really didn't want to intrude if the whole family was getting together, but he was getting in deeper and deeper with each question and he suspected he wouldn't be able to make it out. He resigned himself to accompanying Foggy home.

“Oh, what, you've got a lot of blind gingers in your family?” Matt quipped instead of admitting he would go.

Foggy scoffed. “Dude, shut up. You're coming. I can't leave you here. It would just be sad.”

“I'm not sad,” Matt protested. He didn't mention the whole depression thing, or how Foggy's heart jumped a little, like he realized using that word might be a mistake.

“Don't argue. It won't help.”

Matt opened his mouth but couldn't find anything to say. He sighed instead. “Fine.”

“Good. Cause I already told my mom I was bringing you.”

Matt sighed again. “Foggy-”

“Nope,” Foggy interrupted. “You already agreed.”

 

He then distracted Matt with studying and the discussion was over.

Despite himself, Matt was kind of looking forward to it, to the people who had raised Foggy and influenced the person he'd become.

And not being alone at Christmas would be a major bonus. He'd have to find the perfect gifts to thank them.

 

 

* * *

 

 

As soon as they finished exams and slept for about a day straight, they headed to Foggy's childhood home for Christmas celebrations.

 

On the bus ride back to the Kitchen, Matt listened to Foggy describe his family tree. He knew he'd have no hope of remembering any of it, but he at least tried.

 

When the conversation moved to closets, Matt make a joke and he heard Foggy blush.

“Have you told them?”

“About what?”

Matt shrugged. “Either.” Foggy had told him that he was bisexual not long after they met. He was really anxious about that. He probably thought Matt would be all Catholic on him and demand another roommate, but he was fine with it. Not that he couldn't guess with the way he'd hopelessly flirted at their first meeting, but it was nice to have confirmation. Matt suspected he hadn't been as open with his parents, about his sexuality or being diagnosed bipolar.

Foggy sighed. “No to both. ”

Matt nodded. “I'll be sure not to mention anything then.”

“Thanks man.”

“No problem. You're taking me home like a stray puppy, so it's the least I can do.” He grinned.

Besides, he would never out his best friend. Even if his family was understanding, that was Foggy's choice, and not Matt's. He respected that.


	11. Chapter 11

Only Foggy's immediate family was there when they got to his house. Matt was thankful for that, because finding his way around a new space was hard enough without having to navigate around dozens of strangers.

 

Matt smiled as Foggy introduced him to his mother. He was a bit surprised when the woman hugged him, but thankfully none of the other family members tried it.

 

“Rosalind,” he said, extending a hand for her to shake. “Thank you for having me.”

“Oh, it's no trouble. Franklin has told us all about you.”

Matt grinned. “All good I hope.”

“Nah, I definitely told them about the time we killed those freshmen and buried them in the woods,” Foggy retorted.

Matt rolled his eyes. Typical. He'd play along though.“Foggy,” he hissed. “We swore never to speak of it again.”

“Want a drink?”

Matt shook his head.

“Okay. I'll take you around the house. Just a sec.” Foggy took a long drink before setting it down. “Just leave your bag here for now. We'll come back for it later.”

Matt dropped his bag to the floor, hoping it wasn't in the way, and took Foggy's offered arm.

“Okay, kitchen, and you've been in the entrance. Living room is... um... ten steps forward?”

Nine actually, but good estimate.

“That's where the tree is. Artificial, which is why you can't smell it.” He shuffled over a couple steps, around a table maybe? “We just went through the dining room, by the way.”

Table was likely then.

“I know, contain your enthusiasm. We've almost reached the end of the house, but first, we have a half bath and a laundry room. I doubt you'll need to use the laundry room, but the bathroom in on your left. I'm using my tour guide voice, is it good?”

Matt grinned. “Fantastic.”

He didn't miss the fist pump Foggy did in the air.

“Nailed it. Okay, the stairs are back at the front, so now we'll just reverse.” Foggy led Matt back through the house, and up the stairs.

“Thirteen steps,” Foggy told him. “I know because I counted all the time when I was forced to traipse up and down them.”

Matt had no doubt he was exaggerating, but remembered when he was young, before he lost his sight, and he'd count steps as he went up and down them. It came in handy afterwards- two steps up to the gym, seventeen to the second story of the house. Afterwards he had to learn them, or risk falling when he got to the top and expected there to be another step.

Thankfully, Foggy's count was accurate, and they both made it to the second story without incident.

 

“Okay, my parent's bedroom is behind us to the right. The hallways is super tiny, so sorry.” Matt was pretty much being dragged by this point, and could still feel the walls on either side of him. “That's Lili's room to the right. This one is the bathroom, and my room is at the end of the hall.”

Foggy paused in the doorway. “Huh. It's cleaner than I remember. I think my mother cleaned it. Weird.”

Matt grinned as Foggy moved into the room and followed suit. He felt around for the bed and sat down. “That ever happen before?”

“Not that I can remember,” Foggy admitted. “Although when I was doing my undergrad, they used my room as storage. Maybe this time they just remembered to take all the crap out before I got home.”

“They seem nice,” Matt noted. A good family that cared about each other. Considering how Foggy turned out, he wouldn't have guessed much else.

“They are pretty good,” Foggy agreed. Matt hoped he wasn't feeling guilty about having a family. That seemed like the kind of thing he would do.

 

“I think they'd probably take it well enough,” Matt said, in hopes of changing the subject. He realized right after he said it that it probably wasn't his best bet in terms of less depressing subjects.

Foggy sat on the bed next to him. “Which one?” he sighed.

“Either. Both. It's up to you though. You know I'm not going to tell them.”

Foggy nodded. “I will,” he said quietly. “Just not now. Not at Christmas, when there's so much going on. It's just not the time.” He changed the subject. “So, you've got the bed. I'll make a blanket nest on the floor, and it'll be good. Just try not to step on me, okay?”

Matt rolled his eyes. “Foggy, I'm not going to take your bed.”

“Um, yeah you are. Or my mother will make you. Like, she will physically remove me from it and place you in it.”

Matt could actually picture that happening. Foggy's mother didn't seem very strong, but he had no doubt she was capable of great feats of strength. He laughed. “Foggy, I'm fine with the floor. Really. You can even tell your mother I'm sleeping in the bed and everything. A blanket nest sounds really great, actually.” Cozy.

Foggy sighed, probably debating whether it was worth the fight. “Okay, we can try. But if my mother decides to blame me for this, because she would never blame you, I'm probably going to end up sleeping in a snowbank.”

Matt grinned. “I'll smuggle you back in. Like a puppy.”

“No, dammit!” Foggy protested. “You're the puppy. I'm the cool dude that everyone falls in love with because he rescued an adorable helpless puppy.”

“Foggy,” Matt said, exasperation not entirely faked.

Foggy waved a hand. “Yeah, I know. We should probably go down and get our crap.”

“Mostly your crap,” Matt reminded him. He didn't have much to bring. He travelled light.

Foggy sighed. “Yeah. And wrap all those presents. Hey, how good at you at wrapping?”

“Not bad, if you tell me which side is the inside of the paper.”

Foggy groaned. “I can see it now. Every single present from me, underneath the tree, the wrapping paper inside out.”

“It's not my fault,” Matt said seriously. He could tell with some papers which side was the inside. Not with the really cheap shiny kind. Then he was entirely blind. But sometimes he could tell which side was the pattern. Of course, for Foggy, he'd probably wrap them all inside out just for fun.

“Yeah, okay Stevie Wonder. Let's go.” He stood up and Matt got off his bed to take him arm, already dreading the narrow hallway again. “Thirteen steps you said?”

“Yep,” Foggy agreed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next couple of days were good. Foggy must have briefed his family before bringing Matt home, because they all accommodated him well.

“Your cup is at your two o'clock,” Rosalind told him when they all sat down for dinner. “Potatoes are at noon, chicken is at four, and carrots are at seven. Or maybe eight. I'm not entirely sure.”

Matt smiled. “Thank you.”

 

The same thing happened at every meal, and Foggy must have told his parents about Matt's favourite foods and his particular sensitivities, because he was never served something too spicy or something that made the entire house smell. He appreciated that more than he could ever say.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the continuation of 'matt's a lil shit who would definitely wrap presents inside out for fun'


	12. Chapter 12

Christmas eve was the day that the Nelson clan got together, and Matt was sort of dreading it. He didn't want to dread it. He wanted to enjoy it, but he worried that with so many people, he would become overwhelmed, especially since he was only meeting them for the first time.

Plus, Foggy had given him what was likely a god awful sweater to wear. It wasn't itchy, because he would have refused that, but Foggy claimed it was red and festive.

Matt sighed, and pulled at the collar again. He wished he could see what Foggy was forcing him into.

 

“Dude, you'll be fine,” Foggy reassured him. Was his anxiety that obvious? “Just use some of your charm, and everyone will fall head over heels for you.”

Matt smirked at him. “I am good at that, aren't I?” he mused.

“Which is totally not fair, by the way,” Foggy pointed out. “I want some of those superpowers.”

Matt's heart jumped a little bit before he realized Foggy was referring to his power of making people like him. “You would use them for evil,” Matt laughed. He hoped it didn't sound too forced.

Foggy shrugged. “Semantics. Now, you ready to be pinched and cooed at by multiple generations of the Nelson clan?”

Matt grinned. “As ready as I'll ever be.” Which was to say, not ready at all, but it wouldn't get better, so bring it on.

 

Foggy led him to the living room, which held two women. Matt tried to go through the list of Foggy's relatives to figure out who they were, but drew a blank.

“Foggy!” one of them said.

“Aunt Nora,” Foggy replied. “Aunt Gillian. No kids with you tonight?”

“They're all still hard at work,” the other one, who must have been Aunt Gillian, told him. “Just us.”

“Well ladies, this is my friend Matt Murdock. He's staying with me over the holidays like a stray puppy.”

Matt smiled at them.

“Is this the Matthew we're always hearing about?” one of them asked Foggy, with a suggestive hint.

“You're not always hearing about him, don't exaggerate. His head is swollen enough already.”

Matt only smiled wider. “Pleasure to meet you,” he told them, holding out a hand for them to shake.

Instead of a handshake, he was wrapped in a hug by one of them women. He wasn't able to keep the shock off his face if Foggy's amused noises were anything to go by.

 

The doorbell rang, and Matt could hear two people, one much younger than the other.

“Hey Matt, I'm gonna go get that. You stay here and... socialize, alright?”

The aunt, possibly Nora, released Matt, and he nodded. He felt for the couch to sit down, and found himself sandwiched between the two women.

“So Matt, are you studying law like Franklin?”

Matt bit back the grin about the use of Foggy's real name and nodded.

 

It didn't take long before the people at the door came into the house, and Matt heard the sound of running towards them.

“Auntie Nora! Auntie Gillian!” she squeaked. That would probably be the young one that Foggy told him about. Matt just couldn't remember her name.

One of the aunts scooped her up in her arms.

“Maya! How have you been girlie girl?”

“I'm in SK now,” she said proudly. “I know all my letters and numbers and I even know some of the words.”

Matt couldn't help but smile a little bit. She sounded so proud of her achievement.

“Wow,” one of the aunts said seriously. “Maybe you could read with us later.”

 

Matt heard the doorbell ring again and accepted that Foggy would be busy for a bit yet. Larger crowd this time. Five people, all bigger than Maya.

 

“You doing okay?” Foggy's dad asked, popping his head in the room. “He wanted me to check on you to make sure those two weren't interrogating you or something. Hey Maya,” he added, waving. She waved back.

“I'm fine,” Matt reassured him. “He worries too much.”

He slipped out again, and Matt heard another ring of the doorbell. He wondered how many more people could fit in the house, since he heard three other kids milling about in the dining room, and adults talking in the kitchen.

 

“We can read a book now,” Maya chirped. “I brought my favourite.”

She must have seen Matt then, because she crawled onto his lap from the aunt to his left, perhaps on the way to the aunt on his right, but just stopped.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hi Maya,” Matt said. “I'm Matt.”

“Are you my cousin?”

Matt smiled. “No, I'm Foggy's friend from school.”

She nodded. “Will you read with me?” she asked. One of the aunts began to protest, but he just smiled at her.

“Sure. What book?”

Maya wriggled around on his lap and got into a better position. “Jamberry,” she told him. “It has berries and a bear.”

“Sounds good.”

“Jamberry!” she announced and turned the page. “One berry, two berry. Pick me a blueberry.”

Matt suspected she had the book memorized more than she was reading it, but it worked for him. As long as she didn't ask for help, since he couldn't read it.

“Hatberry. Shoeberry. In my... can... ”

She paused, and Matt could practically hear her little frown.

“What's that word?” she asked, pointing to the page.

Foggy was standing in the doorway and he snickered.

Matt just smiled at her.

 


	13. Chapter 13

Presents were done before dinner, because Maya lost interest in her book once she realized Matt couldn't see it. Also because Matt remembered what the allure of presents was like, and once Foggy came in with bags to put under the tree, the book was all but forgotten.

“Is that one for me?” she squeaked.

“Does it say Maya on it?” Foggy asked her.

“No,” she sighed.

“Then it's not for you. Keep looking for ones with your name.”

“I found one!” she shrieked.

Matt grinned, and resisted covering his ears.

 

The presents were mostly for the younger kids, Maya and the other three that were siblings, but Matt couldn't remember the names of. Foggy and Lili also received presents, and Foggy seemed thrilled about the giftcards. Probably because it meant they wouldn't starve during the second semester, which was always nice.

 

But then Foggy's grandmother started passing out packages, and Matt ended up with one.

“Is this for me?” he whispered to Foggy.

“Yeah man. Open it,” he urged.

Matt obeyed, and tore the paper open to reveal soft fabric in the shape of a sweater. There was raised lettering on the front, and while he was fairly certain he knew what it said, he still asked.

“What does it say?”

“It says Matthew,” Foggy told him.

Matt blushed. He never expected anything like that, a homemade gift that would have taken time and effort and forethought. “Thank you Charlotte, very much.”

“Oh, it's no trouble,” she told him. “I make sweaters for each of my grandkids, and when Franklin told me you'd be here for Christmas, I made you one too.”

“Thank you,” he repeated, running his fingers over the lettering again. He was part of the family. It was almost too good to be true.

 

He was thankful for Foggy's mother announcing dinner, because he might have started leaking otherwise.

 

“All right,” she said, clapping her hands together. “Clean up all the wrapping paper, cause it's time to eat! Kids at the table, adults can fight over the couches and other assorted chairs. One bun per person, and I will notice if you sneak another one, Derek.”

Presumably Uncle Derek protested. “I would never-”

“I have photographic proof from last year, don't push your luck.”

There was a sigh, and presumably a nod. Matt grinned. He loved this family.

Foggy nudged him. “Having fun?”

“So much,” Matt admitted. “And this sweater is so soft.” He couldn't help but keep running his hands over it, relishing the touch.

“I might have mentioned to Grandma that you have a thing for cashmere,” Foggy admitted.

Matt swatted at Foggy. Cashmere was expensive. He shouldn't have done that. Shouldn't have done any of this. He was too good to him.

“Come on,” Foggy told him, ignoring his hands. “We'd better get a bun before Uncle Derek tries to steal them out from under us.”

“Is that a normal thing?” Matt asked, getting to his feet and taking Foggy's arm.

“Sadly, yes.”

Matt bit back his snort.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They got buns, and Foggy lawyered them into a place at the table, which was supposed to be for the children, a fact which Matt pointed out by staring in Foggy's direction.

“I like eating at a table, okay. There's nothing weird about it Matt,” Foggy said defensively.

Matt smirked. “I said nothing.”

“Yeah, but you're doing that look,” Foggy complained.

“What look? I'm incapable of doing any sorts of looks,” Matt retorted. Totally lying. He was great at looks and they both knew it.

 

The others at the table were no doubt watching them. Matt had figured out some names. Besides Maya, there was Nicholas, Alexis, and someone else with an M name.

 

“How's school?” Foggy asked one of their table mates. “What grade are you in now? Two? Three?”

Which one was that age? He couldn't remember. Not the oldest one, obviously, because she was their age.

“Grade three,” the younger girl told him. Alexis then.

“And do you like it?” Foggy continued.

Matt was chasing peas around his plate, regretting the decision to take them. He didn't like peas at the best of time, and they were difficult to eat. If only he could direct them into the mashed potatoes and eat them together...

“How are you going to be a lawyer if you're blind?” the boy asked. Nicholas, by process of elimination.

There was a sound like someone hitting him. “Nicholas, that is rude,” his older sister hissed. M name.

Matt shrugged. He wasn't really bothered by it. The kid was young, and didn't mean it to be offensive. “You don't need sight to be a lawyer,” he told him. “You have to be good at arguing in front of people.”

“Have you ever been rock climbing?” Nicholas asked. “I went last month for my birthday and it was awesome. Can you do rock climbing?”

Matt smiled a little. “No, I haven't been rock climbing. Maybe one day.” He wondered how that would work. He wouldn't be able to do it without revealing his abilities, so probably not the best idea.

“How are you liking school Nicholas?” Foggy asked, getting Matt off the hook in terms of conversation. Matt took the opportunity to try and wrangle the last of his peas.

“It sucks,” Nicholas said. “But next year I get to dissect a frog, so that'll be awesome.”

Alexis freaked out a bit at that, and started Maya, who was sitting next to her.

“That's enough Nicholas,” his sister told him. “Eat quietly or take your plate to the kitchen.”

Nicholas didn't say anything, so he must have resumed eating.

 

They all finished up shortly after that. Matt gave up on the last few peas. They really weren't worth the effort. Foggy cleared their plates to the kitchen and came back to the table.

 

“We can probably join the adults now,” Foggy noted. “If there's any space left in the living room, that is.” There was a pause as he checked. “On second thought, maybe we'll just drag our chairs in there.”

“Franklin, are you and Matt coming in here?” one of the aunts called. “There's room on the couch next to me.”

Matt felt Foggy shrug next to him. “Apparently we'll fit,” he said. Matt got to his feet, ready to follow Foggy into the belly of the beast. Or the heart of the family. Whichever.

 

“Franklin!” his mother called. “Marlene needs help with the dishes. Can you come and help her please?”

Ah, that was her name. Marlene.

Foggy slumped next to him. “I've got to go help with dishes,” he sighed. “You just keep working that Murdock charm, and I'll be back soon.”

It always amused Matt when Foggy made reference to his charming abilities. “Sure you don't want some help?”

Foggy's heartrate spiked. “You know damn well I do not after what happened last time,” he hissed.

He stalked away to the kitchen, and Matt smiled to himself. Last time he'd done dishes with Foggy, he'd broken at least four plates. He still wasn't entirely sure how it happened, but he blamed the soap. And the alcohol. That was probably the bigger issue.

 

He headed to the living room.

“Over here, next to me,” one of the aunts called out. Nora, he believed.

Matt sat down next to her.

“How are you enjoying Nelson Christmas so far?” she asked.

Matt smiled. “It's great. Everyone has been so nice. And the food is great. Much better than anything me or Foggy can make at school.”

Everyone laughed.

“He was never a very good cook,” Foggy's dad said.

“What about you?” his mother asked.

“I can make French toast. And that's about it,” he admitted. “Scrambled eggs, maybe. Breakfast foods.”

“Well, Franklin can make macaroni and cheese, so I'd say he's lucky to have you,” a different aunt chimed in.

Matt was pretty sure it was the other way around, that he was the one so lucky to be given such a good roommate, such an amazing friend. He hardly wanted to say that in front of all these people he barely knew though.

 

Something in his chest twisted, and he knew he wouldn't be able to stay there for much longer.

“Sorry, I'll be right back,” he muttered, ignoring any of their protests.

He hurried through the house, avoiding obstacles and Foggy in the kitchen, sneaking up the stairs and into Foggy's room before bursting into tears.

 

He didn't understand why he was crying. He should have been happy to be surrounded by such love, and he just wasn't. He didn't feel anything.

He felt hopeless, because something that should have elicited such joy was just... nothing.

 

Maybe that was what depression was. It didn't want you to feel anything, so it just sucked up all the emotions, good and bad and left you with nothing. He wasn't sure why it was hitting him so hard at that moment. Maybe it was the company, the atmosphere, the knowledge that it was supposed to be one of the best times of the year. Christmas was supposed to be joyous, surrounded by loved ones. And he was. Matt was with his best friend.

And he still didn't feel anything.

 

Maybe he should try medication. But then he'd have to go back to the doctor or the psychiatrist and be forced to use words to describe these feelings, and even in his own head they sounded stupid.

 

_The mind controls the body,_ he reminded himself. The only problem was, he could only hear it in Stick's voice, and he certainly wasn't helping to improve his mood.

And it didn't help when his mind was the broken one.

But then, Stick also told him that fighting was just the start, that he'd have to learn how to control his feelings. Was depression a feeling? Could he blame Stick for the way he felt nothing at all anymore? He'd left before Matt could learn about it. Same went for knives, but that didn't seem as applicable.

 

For the first time, Matt accepted that he was indeed depressed. He'd known for months, years even, but he hadn't been able to really accept it. But on Christmas Eve, crying on his best friend's bed because he was treated with such kindness, he finally accepted it was true. He was depressed.

It was kind of liberating to even think.

 

* * *

 

When Foggy found him, he was still sprawled face down on the bed. The tears had slowed at least.

 

“Hey Matt. The Nelson clan get too much for you?” Foggy sounded hopeful.

 

Matt couldn't hide the sniffle, and he cursed himself for showing weakness. Also, he was probably leaking on Foggy's bed, and he'd never forgive himself for that.

“Aw, shit, Matt, don't cry. What happened? Did someone say something to you?”

Who would have said something? His family was lovely, if a bit chaotic, and he was certain that none of them would say something that would purposely harm someone else. But it would be the easier explanation for Foggy to deal with.

He pulled at Matt's shoulder until he rolled over. He'd discarded his glasses on the bedside table before burying his face in the pillow, and he only imaged how awful he looked, eyes red from crying, pillow lines etched in his face.

“No,” Matt muttered. He shook his head to emphasize the point. “Everyone's been great. Really great.”

“Then why are you crying?” Foggy asked. He sat down on the bed next to Matt.

“Cause it's so happy,” Matt sniffled.

 

Because he was happy. By all measures of the word he should have been happy.

But the joy that surrounded him didn't fill the empty space inside of him. It still whispered that it wouldn't get better. The hopelessness he'd felt for years still permeated his being.

He was happy. He knew he should be happy. So why didn't he _feel_ happy?

 

He didn't tell Foggy that. He didn't know how to say it in a way that wouldn't be offensive.

 

Foggy flopped down next to him. “Oh,” he said.

Matt tried to explain it in a way that sounded legitimate and didn't involve his untreated depression, since he knew he would get a lecture about that. “I'm sorry. It's just that... Christmas hasn't been the same since my dad died, and the orphanage couldn't really afford to have a big celebration, and when I was on my own, I didn't do much, so to go from that to this, it's just... overwhelming. In a good way,” he added because he never wanted Foggy to think he wasn't grateful for all he'd done.

“Oh,” Foggy whispered. He sounded at a loss. That was fine; so was Matt.

Matt sniffled again. “I'm sorry for doing this,” he mumbled. He kind of wanted to disappear with embarrassment.

Foggy was acting really chill about it though. “Dude, no problem. You've seen me fall apart more than once, and believe me, you're way better at the whole supportive friend thing.”

He really didn't think so. Last time (the only time) Foggy had a breakdown, he panicked and just took him to the hospital. Hardly being a supportive friend. That was just being a good human.

“Shut up,” Matt told him. The threat was lessened by the pillow mushed into his face.

“Never,” Foggy declared. “Now, we'd better get back downstairs before my aunt decides we're up to something that we shouldn't be doing. Or they eat all the pie. That's probably more likely.”

Matt laughed, but it came out more like choking. “I really hope it's the pie one.”

Foggy handed Matt his glasses. “I think the longer we're up here, the more likely it won't be that,” he quipped.

Matt put his glasses back on. He hoped it hid the fact that he was crying. He was prepared to go back down and eat pie like nothing had happened, and he didn't want his face to give him away.

“Come on,” Foggy said, poking him in the arm. “It's pecan, and to die for.”

Foggy did always know his weak spots. Matt grinned. “It better be.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *accidentally angst*


	14. Chapter 14

Christmas morning was quieter, and Matt really appreciated that. It wasn't that he didn't like the rest of the Nelson family, because he did, but he liked the serenity of being with only a few people.

 

Foggy's sister woke them up around nine with a warning that she would eat all the cinnamon buns if they didn't get out of bed.

 

Amongst the presents under the tree, there was one from Matt to Foggy. Wrapped inside out.

Foggy didn't say anything when he opened it, but Matt smirked the whole time. Foggy probably knew.

It was a beginner's guide to braille.

“So you can figure out if I'm reading the same textbook all week or not,” he informed Foggy, who threw a pillow at him in response. It missed by a large margin.

Matt opened his present from Foggy and found the softest scarf he'd ever had the pleasure of touching.

He put it on immediately and planned to wear it forever.

 

He dragged Foggy to church later, still wearing his scarf along with the sweater Foggy's grandmother had made him. He knew that Foggy wasn't exactly comfortable with it, but would also follow his friend to the end of the earth if he asked.

(Matt hoped it would never come to that, but was thankful.)

 

In the church, he almost felt at peace.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They went back to school just after New Year, with their resolutions sitting in the back of their minds. Foggy's had come easily, to always take his meds and tell his parents both things by the end of the year.

Matt took a while longer. What did he want out of the coming year?

 _To be happy._ But was that worthy of a resolution? _To take care of himself and fight off the depression that had been making a home in his mind for years._ How could he say something like that out loud?

 

Finally he told Foggy that he wanted to make his father proud. He didn't elaborate on all that entailed, and instead they clinked their glasses together and drank.

 


	15. Chapter 15

Second semester started and they were both waist deep in readings and tests and homework, and Matt focused on that instead of how empty he felt.

 

Foggy saw the psychiatrist again in February, and seemed to be doing well. Matt was thankful for that.

He considered going back to the doctor, but every time he considered it, another test was on the horizon or a paper was due and he just didn't have time.

 

And then it was May and they were writing exams and then school was over for the summer and he was adrift.

 

Foggy went home for the summer, and Matt went back to the apartment he'd lived in on and off since graduating from high school and aging out of the orphanage. It was a tiny place in the Kitchen, only two rooms, but it was enough for him. He was also told that the building across the road was painfully bright, which of course wasn't an issue for him. The apartment stayed empty for the rest of the year, and Matt was pretty sure the landlord was happy that someone was living in it at least part of the year. Matt had only met him once, when he signed the lease, and the guy had seemed nice enough, even if his two broken ribs were suspect.

It was cheap and quiet, and although it wasn't very big, it was as much home as he'd had for a long time.

 

Foggy didn't seem as impressed when he visited, and demonstrated this displeasure by throwing his arms out to almost reach both walls.

 

Foggy asked him if he was working, and he deadpanned something about being a bike messenger before admitting he'd gotten work transcribing tapes for smaller law firms. Some were decades old, and they were all boring. Still, it paid well enough and he didn't have to leave home, which Foggy seemed to think was a problem.

 

“You're young and in your prime,” he said knowingly. Matt only raised an eyebrow. “And your fridge only contains ketchup, cheese strings, and some carrots. You need to go out more.”

Matt conceded the point about the state of his fridge, and for the rest of the summer, Foggy took him shopping every other week or so, as often as he could get away from working for his dad.

Foggy even took him for ice cream once, and Matt couldn't explain it, but the ice cream _(milk from three different dairies, dirt from the hand of the man who served it)_ just made him inexplicably sad.

Foggy asked what was wrong, but he couldn't answer.

 

Summer was over soon enough, and they headed back to school for their second year.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SO sorry about the delay. My Marvel big bang happened this week, along with like seventeen assignments and midterms. And then such a short chapter to boot.


	16. Chapter 16

Second year started off much the same as first year, but this time they were living in an apartment off campus. They had an actual kitchen that Matt could use to burn various foods. He stuck to French toast after the first time he set the smoke detector off. (How could someone burn quinoa _so_ badly? It was _smoking._ )

 

Matt began boxing again, got a gym membership. Exercise was supposed to help with depression, and he did like staying in shape.

“ _The war's coming Matty,”_   Stick's voice echoed in his head. Matt ignored him. He wanted to do this for himself, not for some imaginary war that his childhood mentor trained him for. Dick.

He hit the punching bag particularly hard, imagining it was Stick.

 

Foggy didn't really question it much. He probably knew that exercise was good for depression, one of the various doctors or psychiatrists telling him over the years. Maybe during his own research.

Matt offered to teach him to box, tried to drag him to the gym a bunch of times. He always refused, citing homework or other commitments, and most of the time he wasn't lying. And that was okay. Matt knew that Foggy didn't want to deal with his problems in the same way as Matt did.

 

Foggy seemed stable on his medication, and Matt was holding it together pretty well. He hadn't gone back to see the psychiatrist or the clinic doctor, but neither of them had tried very hard to get in contact. The clinic had sent him an email months ago about a follow up appointment, but he ignored it. He was dealing with things the way he normally did, mainly ignoring them and pretending they didn't exist.

He never said it was a particularly good coping method.

 

There was only one major incident with Foggy, around exam time.

Matt awoke to Foggy hovering over his bed.

 

“Matt,” Foggy whispered.

Matt ignored him and hoped it was a dream.

“Matt,” Foggy whispered again. Not a dream.

Mat groaned. “What?”

“Okay, so you know how we have reading week in February? Sorry, of course you do. Anyway, I was thinking we could go to South America to build houses.”

Matt heard the humming get louder. “Are you showing me your laptop?” he sighed.

The humming decreased, presumably as Foggy took his laptop back. “No,” he said defensively.

“Can this wait til morning?” he asked.

Foggy waved a hand and sat on the end of Matt's bed. “It's almost six, you'd be getting up soon anyway.”

Matt felt for his watch. That was true. “But it's Saturday,” he pointed out.

“Sorry,” Foggy muttered, clicking ferociously.

“Why are you doing this now?” Matt asked, rolling over so his face wasn't mashed into the pillow as much.

“Because I thought of it. And it sounded like a good idea. Don't you think so?”

Matt frowned. “How long have you been working on this?”

“Oh, a couple of hours at least,” he dismissed. “But I've found cheap plane tickets, and the accommodations are paid for by the company that we'll be building houses for.”

Matt frowned even harder, if that was possible at such an early hour.

“Are you sure you feel okay?” he asked.

“What? Yeah, of course. I'm great.”

“Maybe you should sleep, and we can talk about this later,” Matt said gently. He was pretty sure he knew what was happening.

Foggy scoffed at him. “I don't need sleep. I need to build houses for homeless people. I'd be out there building houses right now if I could. Actually, there's probably a project in New York somewhere that I could work on-”

Matt placed a hand over the keyboard before Foggy could start typing again.

“Foggy, I need you to stop a minute and think about what you're saying.”

He could practically feel the scowl being levelled in his direction.

“Flights of ideas, decreased need for sleep, racing thoughts...” Matt trailed off. “Sound familiar?”

He'd memorized the symptoms of hypomania episodes not long after Foggy was diagnosed. Mixed episodes were harder to identify, which was why he'd missed it the first time. He never wanted that to happen again, so he studied harder, memorized symptoms, etched them into his brain for later reference.

Foggy's entire body slumped. “Oh,” he sighed.

“I'm not saying that it's a bad idea, because it could be good. I just think you need to save it for a time when you're not...”

“Manic,” Foggy filled in the blank. “Or hypomanic, whatever. Doesn't sound as good,” he added.

Matt smiled at him. “And I'm not sure how well me building a house would go.”

“True,” Foggy conceded.

“So, how about in the actual morning, you call your psychiatrist, because your meds might need to be changed or adjusted, and for now, you leave the flights alone. Maybe focus on something for those upcoming exams.”

Foggy nodded. “Should put my energy to use for something good,” he grumbled.

Matt grinned. “Yeah buddy. Good idea.”

Foggy sighed and heaved himself up off the bed. He tucked his laptop under one arm.

“Sorry for waking you up.”

“Don't be. I'd rather you come to me than... I don't know, go out and do something that you could get hurt doing. Like going somewhere sketchy in New York to build houses.”

“Not my finest idea,” Foggy agreed.

Matt grinned. “Wake me up in a few hours and I'll make French toast.”

“And only French toast,” Foggy amended.

“I apologized about the bacon,” he grumbled.

Foggy only laughed.

 

Monday morning, Foggy went to see his psychiatrist and his medication was increased.

 

The rest of the year was uneventful except for Matt struggling to keep his head above the metaphorical water. Anytime he thought he was about to slip under, he went to the gym and beat the hell out of a bag, usually in the middle of the night.

 

 

* * *

 

 

That summer they both stayed in the apartment. It was better than the tiny place Matt had in the Kitchen, and it had the bonus that he could stay with Foggy the whole summer. He knew that his friend worried about him, and this way it would prevent him from taking time out of his own busy schedule to go shopping for his friend. Not that Matt didn't appreciate it, since walking into a grocery store was even more terrifying than the thought of taking the bar exam, but he could manage on his own if he had to.

 

Foggy got a job at a coffee shop near their apartment, and urged Matt to apply as well. He had no idea what he would do working there, but he applied, mostly to appease Foggy.

 

“There's the whole legal thing of them not being able to discriminate against you for being blind,” Foggy told him while they waited to hear back about an interview.

Matt grinned. “It's so nice to hear you've learned things from law school.”

Foggy shrugged off the compliment. “I pick up some stuff.”

Matt patted him on the shoulder.

 

He didn't get the job at the coffee shop (“We should sue for discrimination,” Foggy told him) but Matt got the job back from the previous summer, which he actually preferred. It didn't involve leaving the apartment, and definitely did not involve customer service.

People were _awful._ Matt routinely questioned why he was going into a career that dealt with them directly.

 

In August, the air conditioning broke in their apartment, and despite Matt's best legal arguments, it wouldn't be fixed for at least a week.

So Matt did the next best thing, because melting was not an option. He moved his laptop and tapes to the coffee shop Foggy worked at and spent the whole day there, nursing an iced latte for most of the day and waiting for Foggy to get off so they could share scones that he'd hidden away at the start of his shift. He learned a lot of interesting things while trying to focus on transcribing old law cases. Apparently the debate about how to properly make a latte was heated, no pun intended, with the coffee shop employees divided about the issue. Also, three of Foggy's coworkers had a crush on Matt but wondered if he and Foggy were dating, and one girl was absolutely head over heels for her manager. Matt could tell that would end badly, if it ever went ahead.

 

Matt was almost sad when the air conditioning was fixed, because he wanted to find out if Laura and Taylor ever made up.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Third year came upon them too quickly, and they began their internship in second semester. They landed a prestigious internship at Landman and Zach, which, as Foggy pointed out, a lot of their classmates would kill for.

Matt wasn't a fan of corporate law, and he was sure Foggy knew that. It tended to come up when he was drunk and they were ranting about their course loads and some of the more useless classes they had to take. Still, he knew the internship was a great opportunity, and would give them a lot of experience.

But when they were both offered jobs, Matt knew in his heart that he couldn't take it. He hated that it meant Foggy would almost certainly follow him, because his best friend was an idiot like that.

Foggy stole a ton of bagels and packed their dinosaurs up and Matt loved him for it.

 

Because he knew that no matter how hollow he felt, he would always hate himself more if he stayed, protecting people from the justice they deserved, and leaving others vulnerable. He knew it was his duty to help them, even if it meant less pay, no elevators, and no morning bagels. Some suffering was good for the soul after all, and he couldn't help but feel he deserved it.

Like... penance.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The day of their graduation was warm and sunny. Matt could feel it on his face when he looked up to the sky.

Most of Foggy's family had come out to see them get their diplomas, and Matt only wished his father could be there to see it. He knew he was there, somewhere, so damn proud of his little Matty for having made it. Using his brain instead of his fists, just like he'd always wanted.

Of course, then his father probably also knew that he still used his fists, more of an outlet than anything else.

But that wasn't a thought that he should dwell on on such a big day, and he pushed it to the back of his mind as he accepted his diploma.

 

“We made it buddy,” Foggy told him afterwards. They were both crushed in a mob of various Nelsons, and Matt could still tell he was beaming.

Matt grinned back. Yes. They had made it.

He hugged Foggy tighter, just to let him know that he was still there.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact- one of my friends managed to make fire quinoa. On a hot plate no less.


	17. Chapter 17

They officially declined the Landman and Zach offer. It just didn't feel right to Matt. He couldn't spend the rest of his life working for a corporation like that.

He knew it disappointed Foggy a bit, but he would come around. He was just as idealistic as Matt, if not more, but sometimes got distracted by the shiny allure of wealth.

 

They got drunk one night shortly after, at Foggy's place, because Matt had just gotten his new apartment and was in the process of moving. They were halfway into a bottle of vodka between them and were sprawled on the bed when the conversation took a turn. Foggy was practically exuding moroseness, and Matt wasn't really ready for a serious conversation, but it seemed Foggy had other plans.

 

“M'not supposed to drink with my meds,” Foggy muttered into a pillow. “Well. I can. Won't kill me. But s'not good.” He shifted his head on the pillow. Flannel pillowcase. Matt wasn't sure why Foggy had flannel, but he figured it wasn't a good time to ask. “What about you?” Foggy continued. “Can you drink with your meds?”

Matt hummed. He had never really told Foggy that he wasn't on meds. Foggy had sort of assumed that like himself, Matt was taking meds as well.

“Are you even taking meds?” He sounded frowny as he said it.

Matt shrugged.

Foggy rolled over and sighed. “Dude, you know that I will support you if you want to do it without meds, but I worry, okay.”

“I know,” Matt muttered. His glasses had been left in the kitchen somewhere around the second shot, and he'd closed his eyes in the pretense of sleep in hopes of avoiding the conversation, but it wasn't working. “I'm doing okay,” he said finally.

Foggy hummed at him, obviously expecting more.

“I... talk to someone,” Matt hedged, wanting to move on, or go back to giggling about how certain words sounded.

“Is that someone your priest?” Foggy asked.

Matt didn't reply, and he knew that Foggy would know what that meant. He hadn't been to confession in a while, but he'd been scouting out a new church to go to.

“That might save your soul or whatever, but what about your head? It's important too,” Foggy told him seriously. Like he was an expert. Matt didn't entirely agree. Priests were sort of everything.

Matt only sighed. “I know.” But it wasn't like he could explain most thing to therapists. They wouldn't understand.

“Did you ever try meds?” Foggy wondered.

 

Matt sighed before answering. “No. I wanted to try without them first, but then I saw what the drugs did to you, and I never wanted that to happen to me. I didn't want to be... clouded.” Matt clenched his fists, remembering what had happened to Foggy on the medication, how he had been so scared of what he had done to himself. For Matt, fear of losing control like that was impossible to get past. He needed to be completely aware, to be in control all the time, because otherwise, he could get someone hurt.

He practically felt Foggy roll his eyes. “Matty, they were the wrong medications for me. Not all drugs do that. I'm good now, right?”

Matt shrugged. He honestly didn't know.

 

They laid quietly for a minute, Matt listening to Foggy's heartbeat as he shifted on the sheets occasionally. There was a minor accident two streets over, and his downstairs neighbours were arguing about which brand of coffee to buy.

 

“You know, sometimes I envied you,” Matt admitted. He did not intend to let that slip out, but once it was out there, it was impossible to take back.

Foggy's heartrate jumped slightly. “Why?”

“Because you weren't just depressed. You were sometimes, and I knew it was awful for you, but it was one of those misery loves company things. Because then I wasn't alone. But that wasn't it. You'd get happy sometimes, like, ridiculously happy, and I'd kind of hate you because I wanted to be happy, but it seemed impossible for me, so far out of reach. I was jealous that you could break free of the depression and I couldn't. Because I wasn't strong enough.” He'd been thinking about it a lot, about how he could win if he just got back up. Because Murdocks were always supposed to get back up, no matter how many times they fell down. And here he was, down and not getting back up, not even trying, because he just _couldn't._

“Matty,” Foggy whispered, reaching a hand out. Matt avoided it.

He continued, because it couldn't get much worse, honestly. “And I know that's kind of an awful thing to say, because you always came back down, you crashed _hard_ and I hated seeing you like that because every time you went back to being depressed you knew just how much you'd lost. But at least you'd gotten that time where you didn't absolutely hate yourself.”

Or maybe it could. He clearly needed to stop drinking. Here he was, being jealous of Foggy for something he couldn't control, for something that they weren't supposed to talk about, that no one talked about, because mental illness was such a taboo, and here he was just bringing it up and making such a mess out of it, god what was wrong with him? His eyes were leaking on Foggy's sheets and everything.

“I know it wasn't easy. I know,” he repeated. “But that didn't make it any easier on me either, because I just wanted us to both just be happy, you know? Or at least not so depressed all the time.”

“I know buddy,” Foggy whispered. A hand found Matt's hair, and he couldn't be bothered to pull away because it was so soothing. Foggy continued stroking as Matt tried to find the words.

Matt sniffled. “I'm such a mess when I'm drunk,” he admitted. _The biggest mess, and I wouldn't hate you for being angry about this._

“S'okay,” Foggy mumbled. “We'll forget this in the morning.”

Matt nodded, and curled up on his side, facing Foggy. The flannel sheets were more comfortable than he expected, although not as nice as his silk. He could almost fall asleep there.

He felt Foggy get up off the bed, and followed him vaguely around the room. He grabbed something before throwing it over Matt. A blanket. What had happened to the other one?

He didn't know, and it didn't matter, since Foggy was crawling in next to him, pulling what was left over him and facing Matt on his side. He adjusted his pillow.

“It'll be okay, Matty,” Foggy whispered after a moment. “We're gonna be the best damn avocados. Stupid things like depression can't stop us.”

He really hoped that was true. He made a noise to let Foggy know he'd heard, and then tried to fall asleep, listening to Foggy's breathing and heart beat to lull him into sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Not long after they quit Landman and Zach, and even sooner after they had their drunken night, Matt heard it. The little girl crying in her bed down the block. If he focused, he could hear everything. It made something deep down in him burn with rage.

 

That was one good thing about the depression. It dulled the anger. But now with the depression at bay, the anger reared its ugly head, and Matt was furious.

He did what he was supposed to do; he called the authorities. But he heard it play out, how the father made excuses, how the mother couldn't believe it, and the little girl... well, she had been told that it was their little secret, so of course she didn't say anything to the nice police officer who spoke to her alone.

When the police left after giving an apology, it took everything in Matt to not punch his wall so hard he broke every bone in his hand.

Instead, he started planning, let the rage simmer low for a few weeks, until he was ready.

 

He learned the man's routine, followed him at work, waited til he was alone. Then he attacked, a makeshift costume hiding his identity, dark clothes to hide him, a pair of leggings tied around his head to conceal his identity.

He'd only wrapped his hands in tape like he was going to the gym, and he realized too late that it wasn't enough, the man's blood wetting his fingers as he punched him in the face. It wasn't as disgusting as he'd expected though, the feeling of being able to kill a man if he wished, knowing that it was because of him that the man was bleeding, hurting.

Matt punched him a few more times, then stood back, savouring the feeling of sticky warmth on his hands, then warned the man just what would happen if he ever touched his daughter again.

 

He slept soundly that night for a full six hours. It was the best he'd slept in weeks.

 

After that, he knew that he couldn't let it go. The anger was better than feeling nothing at all, even if it meant he had to let the devil out every now and again. He could channel his rage and help people at the same time.

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we get into the show canon.

Apparently some things had happened during their drunken post quitting Landman and Zach romp that had made Foggy concerned, because he insisted Matt go to a counsellor.

And Matt knew he wasn't going to let it go, so he finally agreed.

 

He hadn't been to therapy since the appointment Foggy had set up in law school. What was her name? Dr Keable, that was right. She'd spoken to him about trauma, not that he needed it, since he'd already been to trauma recovery not long after his accident. It didn't help the first time, and it certainly wasn't any better the second time. He'd grown wary and disillusioned. He only went because he promised Foggy, and because he knew Foggy would be going to his own appointment.

 

So he wasn't exactly looking forward to going to another one, but he did.

 

She was relatively nice. Told him to call her Martha, and didn't probe about his father or his childhood. They did spend some time talking about religion, and Matt admitted the guilt he felt about pretty much everything, about dragging Foggy along with him to a firm that would most likely fail, about all the people he hadn't helped, the things he hadn't done. She asked him if he attended church or and the last time he'd been to confession. When he admitted he hadn't gone in a while, she recommended one in the Kitchen, with a Father who made lattes and was always willing to advise members of his congregation, even if they were brand new. Matt thanked her, and tucked that bit of information away.

He did not mention how he nearly beat a man to death the previous week, or how happy it made him feel. He suspected he'd get locked up for that, no matter how nice she was.

 

Still, Matt liked her more than Dr Keable, and when she asked him if he'd be coming back to see her, he didn't automatically say no.

 

“I will... think about it,” Matt said. And he meant it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Plans developed for their own law office. Foggy drew a sign on a napkin and Matt had to pretend he couldn't tell what it said when he really thought it was the most beautiful thing he'd never seen.

 

They clinked their glasses and spilled some on the napkin.

“Nelson and Murdock, attorneys at law,” Foggy said proudly.

“Nelson and Murdock,” Matt echoed. He smiled. He almost felt happy.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Of course, things went downhill from there. Sure, they got their own offices and their first client, who became their secretary and then their friend, but Matt also uncovered a thread that led back to a web he couldn't possibly hope to untangle. Not alone anyway.

 

While trying to rescue a young boy kidnapped by Russians, Matt nearly died and met Claire. His group of friends expanded to three (four if he included Father Lantom), and the secret club of people who knew that Matt Murdock ran around wearing a mask expanded to two.

 

She saved his life and tortured a man together, and when Matt delivered the boy back home to his thankful father, he wondered if this was what he was meant to do. If he was destined to stay in the shadows and the dark, both figuratively and literally, and fight other people's battles since he seemed unable to fight his own.

 

He was framed for cop killings and the explosion that hurt his best friend and their new client, a lovely woman by the name of Elena. It was hard to argue when you wore a mask though, so Matt laid low, working on the other side of the law to find the one doing the framing.

Karen seemed to be working parallel to his efforts with a reporter, and Matt worried about her safety. He worried about everyone. He couldn't seem to bring himself to care too much about himself, so he spent it on others. It had been so long since he had others he genuinely cared about, and he didn't want to screw it up. And maybe he took it too far, but it was that or falter in his certainty, and he couldn't survive that.

 

Soon Matt found out a name to put to the actions spreading throughout his city, and before long he had the man as well.

 

It was hard, balancing his job fighting for justice, and his obligation fighting for _justice._ Not to mention that he had to balance it all with his faith, and even with Father Lantom's guidance, he still never knew what he should do. He just kept going, hoping that what was right would present itself.

 

Stick turned up and was just as much of a dick as Matt remember, maybe more even. Matt beat him up and sent him away and wished that he could tell his ten year old self that he would one day beat up his asshole mentor who'd caused him so much pain. It was a hollow victory though, because it turned out Stick had kept the bracelet.

Matt could never hate him as much as he wanted.

But he turned his attention back to his city, because despite what Stick said, he was making a difference. He was trying.

 

And then Elena died, and Matt was so angry with himself, for allowing such corruption to survive in his city, for not killing Fisk before he started targeting those he cared about, for not being able to save her. He had murder in his blood and it was all he could see.

 

So he went out, drunk on alcohol and sorrow and rage and tried to find the man behind all the corruption. He found some sort of ninja instead, and bled a path from the warehouse to his apartment, because he knew that was a fight he couldn't win, and he just made it back home when he realized he didn't know what to do next, so he did the only thing he could do and passed out on the floor.

 


	19. Chapter 19

Foggy was in his apartment. Foggy was in his apartment and everything hurt.

 

He didn't remember much of what had happened... whenever. Last night? He knew he made it home, and managed to get his costume off. He'd heard someone outside his apartment and didn't want to risk them finding the costume, so he kicked it under his bed before stumbling out into the living room.

Then he lost consciousness.

 

He took stock of his body. He could feel the pull of stitches in various locations scattered across his body. Most of them were open to the air, but some were covered in gauze, including a spot on his side that was numb. His fingers found their way under the blanket to his side, and he pulled the gauze off. The scent and taste of blood was immediately more evident, if he hadn't noticed it before. But the skin was still numb. Drugs? Nerve damage? He couldn't know.

He fumbled with the bandage to stick it down again and began the task of finding his arms underneath the blanket.

 

Matt reached for the back of the couch, intending to pull himself up into a seated position, or at least as close as he could get. He'd kind of forgotten that Foggy was there, with everything else so loud and demanding.

“Wouldn't do that if I were you. But then, I don't really know you as well as I thought.”

He was angry. Of course he was. Matt couldn't possibly blame him for that.

“Foggy,” Matt sighed. “Foggy, I'm sorry... that you found me like that.”

“Are you trying to kill yourself?” Foggy demanded. “Cause this is reminding me a hell of a lot of the time I found you on the roof.”

What time on the roof? Matt couldn't remember any sort of incident on a roof, let alone one where it could have been seen as him trying to kill himself. Not that this was that either, but Foggy didn't have much to work with, and a suicide attempt certainly did make more sense than assuming his friend was a vigilante.

“No... Foggy... I'm not. Please don't think that.”

Foggy threw up his arms. “Matt I found you covered in blood on your floor! What else am I supposed to think?”

Matt tried to pull himself up on the couch again, and it only went marginally better than the last time. “Foggy, I would never-”

His friend cut him off before he could even come up with an excuse. “You come into work covered with bruises all the time. You've always got a healing cut somewhere. What else am I supposed to think?”

He had a point. “Foggy,” Matt pleaded. How could Foggy think that he was trying to kill himself? That was the last thing he wanted. He couldn't die. Too many people needed him, even ones that didn't know it yet.

“No,” Foggy said, moving his hand towards Matt. “No, it's my turn to talk. I take my meds. I deal with the side effects, and believe me, they suck a lot of the time. But I still do it, because I promised you.”

Matt wasn't sure what that promise was. Nothing had been ever spoken, not that it had needed to be. The promise that he would never scare his friend like that again, maybe. His head was too clouded with blood loss and pain to think it through more clearly.

“I knew how scared you were when you had to take me to the hospital that night. And believe me, it scared the shit out of me too. So I promised that as soon as we got my meds sorted out, I would stick to them, because I never wanted to scare you like that again.” Foggy paused to breathe. “And I know we never actually said it, but I was kind of hoping you'd never do anything like that to me. So what the hell is this?”

_Not a suicide attempt. Not me hurting myself. But also not something that is easy to share, even though I wish I could._

“I didn't do this Foggy,” he pleaded. “Not to myself. It was...”

“Who?” Foggy demanded. “Who did this to you, because I swear I will kick their ass.”

Matt shook his head. Even if Foggy was capable of doing such a thing, not against a man like Nobu. Who also happened to be dead, so the point was moot.

“Matthew Murdock,” Foggy growled. “You tell me who did this to you right now, or Nelson and Murdock is through.”

He couldn't mean that, surely. Matt couldn't detect any lie in Foggy's heartbeat, but his head was still clouded and that only meant that Foggy thought it was true. It wasn't an indication of him carrying through with the threat. Still, he would keep asking until he got an answer.

“Nobu,” he whispered.

“Who?”

“I think he's some sort of... ninja. Or something.” Matt winced internally at how bad that sounded. Seriously. A ninja. He totally wasn't lying.

Foggy was quiet for a minute, and Matt wished he could have seen his friend's face.

“Are you fucking with me Matt? Because I swear to god if you are fucking with me-”

“Foggy,” Matt pleaded, blinking back the tears that threatened to escape. Stupid leaking eyes. “Nobu... he worked for Fisk. Or with him. I don't know. But he attacked me.”

“Worked. Past tense,” Foggy noted.

Matt winced. Poor word choice. “He's dead now. I think. I left before I could be sure. He kind of... caught on fire.”

Foggy got to his feet and started moving again.. “Jesus Matt,” he hissed.

Matt slumped back on the couch. Everything hurt, and the tension wasn't helping. He had to explain, before Foggy jumped to any more conclusion.

“Fisk though?” he asked. “Fisk was the one who did this?”

Matt considered how to respond. “Sort of? Indirectly.”

“I'm going to kill him,” Foggy declared. “That absolute _asshole-_ ”

“Foggy,” Matt begged.

“Not now. Stop talking,” Foggy ordered.

Matt stopped. Foggy was dead set on not listening.

 

Foggy sank into a chair across from Matt. He was in the living room, on the couch. He hoped he hadn't bled on it too much, not like it would matter to him. Guests would be harder though.

But that wasn't what he should have been thinking about.

“What have you been doing Matty? What did you get yourself into? You were the one who told us to go after Fisk the right way, the legal way. Why did you think you could do anything different?”

 

And there it was. He had told Karen and Foggy that they had to do it the legal way to keep them safer, and then was the one who went out and risked his life because he was angry and emotional and had nearly died because of it. How was he supposed to explain that to Foggy, even without mentioning that he was the vigilante running around Hell's Kitchen. He couldn't. There was no way he could explain his way out of this that would make it sound okay. The least offensive option was the truth, and even that would be terrible. But Foggy had been his best friend for years, had been the one who entrusted Matt with all of his secrets, and he deserved to know.

 

He opened his mouth to start talking a few times before he could make any words actually come out.

“I'm...”

He winced and closed his eyes for a second. “You have to promise to listen. You can leave after, but you have to listen first. Please. Promise me that.” If Foggy left before he got through at least a basic explanation, Matt didn't know if he would ever come back.

“Of course. I promise.” Foggy almost sounded insulted at the thought he would leave. Matt wished that would hold true in the next few minutes.

Matt nodded. He turned his gaze towards where he thought Foggy was, since he was still having a hard time locating anything. He took a deep breath and just finally said it.

“I'm the man in the mask.”

 

Matt kept talking for the sake of saying words, although he wasn't sure Foggy was listening.

“Please Foggy, listen. You promised that you would listen.”

“Yeah,” Foggy choked out.

Matt sighed, and winced. He had to stop doing that. “The first thing you have to know is that I didn't blow up those buildings, or hurt those cops. It was Fisk. It was all Fisk.” He had so much to say and not enough air because the pain kept him from taking a deep breath. But he kept going. “All I was doing, everything that I ever did, was to try and help. The little boy that was kidnapped by the Russians? I brought him back. Human traffickers, working out of the docks. I took care of them.”

“Karen,” Foggy whispered. “You rescued Karen.”

Matt exhaled. Yeah.”

“But... how can you do all those things? You're _blind_ Matt. Or... are you? Jesus Matt, have you been lying to me every since we've met?”

 

How could he say that? Why would anyone ever do that, pretend to be blind, just for the sake of keeping a secret? Nothing could ever be worth that. Surely Foggy had to realize that. Matt would make him realize that.

 

“Was anything ever real with us?” Foggy whispered.

Matt's heart broke a little bit at that. “Of course it was.” He tried to prop himself up more, despite the pain. “Foggy, I never wanted to lie to you. I hated every minute of it. I hated not being able to tell you the truth. But I was trying to protect you. You have to understand that.”

“Are you even blind?” Foggy demanded.

Matt sagged. “Yes, I'm blind.” Of course he is. Why, how, could someone fake that for so many years?

“Then how the hell do you do... whatever it is you do?” Foggy demanded, swinging his arms around. “How are you the man in the mask if you can't see?”

The explanation would be hard. It was hard enough when he had a clear head and the other person wasn't angry at him, like with Claire. “I can see, sort of.”

“What the fuck are you saying Matt?”

Matt took a deep breath. “I can't see. That much is true. No light perception, just like I told you when we first met. I never lied about that. But there's more that I didn't tell you. My hearing is enhanced, and so are my other senses. Together they build a sort of picture of the world, like an impressionistic painting. It looks like a world on fire, if everything was engulfed in flames.”

He didn't mention the more scientific aspect, because he wasn't sure he'd be able to get the words out without stumbling over them.

“So you can see,” Foggy said.

“That's not... You're not... are you even listening to what I'm saying?” He wasn't sure if he could explain it any other way.

“Yeah, world on fire, I got it. But _jesus_ Matt, that's something you should have told me about.” Oh. So Foggy did sort of get it, but was stuck more on the secret rather than the actual ability.

“I didn't even tell my dad after it happened,” he explained. Hadn't told anyone until Claire. Stick just... knew, and it was clear by that point that even if he tried to explain it to anyone else, they wouldn't understand. Maybe even think he was crazy.

“You told that nurse, Claire.” Oh. Jealous maybe?

“I had to,” Matt told him. “She found me in a dumpster, half dead. She didn't tell you?”

“No. She didn't. She wouldn't say anything about all of this.” He made some sort of gesture that Matt couldn't decipher. “She seemed nice,” he noted.

“She is,” Matt agreed. Claire was pretty much the best, next to Foggy of course.

 

Foggy got up and started pacing around the living room. “Jesus Matt, what are you doing. Really. You're a lawyer, you're supposed to be helping people.”

“I am.”

Foggy's heartrate spiked, probably in anger. “In a mask! As a vigilante! That's not how you're supposed to do things!”

Matt tried to follow Foggy's movement so he could look at him. “Would you have done it? If you could have saved Elena, would you have?”

Foggy stopped pacing. “It's not fair Matt.”

“We don't live in a world that's fair,” Matt told him. “We live in this one. And I'm doing everything I can to make it a better place.”

Foggy scoffed. “You sound just like Fisk.”

 _Don't think that. Please never think that. We're not the same. We can't be._ “Don't say that. Don't twist it around.”

“Did you ever stop to think what would happen if you got caught? About what would happen to me or Karen? It's not just about you anymore Matt. Did you ever think about us?”

“Of course I did,” he whispered. “That's what all of this was about.” He couldn't have them getting involved, because then they would get hurt, and there was no amount of confession or prayers that could fix the amount of guilt he would feel.

“Did you honestly think that anyone would believe we didn't know?” Foggy demanded.

Matt felt his face crumple. “The city needs me in that mask, Foggy.”

“Maybe you're right. Maybe it does. But I don't. I only ever needed my friend.”

Matt tried not to think about what that could mean, about depressive episodes that Foggy kept hidden, hypo-mania episodes that he missed, distracted by his own injuries and pain that he'd missed his friend's.

“I wouldn't have kept this from you, Matt. Not from you.”

Matt knew it was probably true, but that didn't help prevent the tears from welling up, or from him trying to deny it. “You don't know that. You don't know that.”

“Yeah, I do.”

Foggy headed towards the door.

“Foggy... wait. Foggy,” Matt called after him, but his friend didn't even falter. He tried to listen for his heartbeat, but lost it in a sudden burst of traffic in the street.

He was alone.

 


	20. Chapter 20

Karen came to visit the next day and brought him a balloon. She said it had a monkey on it.

Foggy was right; he shouldn't be lying to her like that, but if he told her, then she would leave, and he would really have no one. And he couldn't do that to himself.

 

“No one broke in,” he said, which was the truth, and yet, not what she wanted to hear. But he couldn't tell her what she wanted to hear because it would break both of them and he couldn't take losing two friends in two days.

 

They went back and forth some more, until Karen changed the subject and brought up something she'd found in her search to bring down Fisk. Matt was surprised to hear it was still going on, but then, why should he assume the whole world had stopped, just because he did.

 

“Karen, be careful, please,” he said finally.

“You know, maybe you should take your own advice,” she told him quietly, moving closer to inspect one of the cuts on his hairline.

 

Then she pressed the balloon into his hand and left him alone again.

 

* * *

 

Claire visited to patch him up again (he tore the stitches being stupid, but he was angry, so angry about everything). She berated him again, told him to cut back or she'd be stitching a corpse, and Matt took a minute to wonder what that would be like. Then she told him that she was leaving for a while. He couldn't blame her.

He was going to miss her.

(But her leaving just reminded him that everyone leaves. Even Foggy.)

 

Her words echoed in his head. _“Bloody and alone.”_

He'd already accepted that he would end up bloody, but he didn't think he could stand being alone.

 

So he did what he usually did when he was lost. He went to church.

Father Lantom was a comfort, and somehow always knew the right thing to say. Plus, he knew what Matt really did. And he didn't leave. Perhaps it was because that was his job, but Matt liked to hope it was because it meant he wasn't as awful a person as he sometimes thought.

 

He asked, and Father Lantom agreed that God made everyone with a purpose. So Matt had to know.

“Then why did He put the devil in me? Why do I feel it in my heart, and my soul, clawing to be let out? If that's not all part of God's plan?”

For so long, the anger and the depression had been at odds, and the depression usually won. But lately, the anger was winning out. The devil.

Of course, if the anger was the devil, then what was the depression?

“Maybe you're being called to summon the better angels of your nature. Maybe that's the struggle you're feeling, deep within you.”

Matt frowned. Surely the depression couldn't be the angels. Maybe they were both the devil, double dose. Maybe that's what his grandmother was going on about all those years ago.

“And how do you know the angels and the devil inside me aren't the same thing?” he asked quietly, dreading the answer.

Father Lantom leaned back in the pew. “I don't,” he admitted. “But nothing drives people to church faster than the thought of the devil snapping at their heels. Maybe that was God's plan all along. Why He created him, allowed him to fall from grace… To become a symbol to be feared… warning to us all. To tread the path of the righteous.”

 

Matt just wished he knew what it was.

 

* * *

 

He went (out against his best judgement, or rather, Claire's) to find who made Fisk's suits. Because Claire was right in more than one respect- he needed some sort of body armour.

That's how he met Melvin Potter.

With a promise that he would protect Betsy in any way he could, Melvin agreed to make him a suit.

Things were finally looking up.

(That was a lie. He was still furious and hurt and betrayed and angry at the world.)

 

He turned his focus back to Fisk's enterprises. The drugs were connected, somehow. So he followed that thread. He knew that various blind people were being used as drug mules, so he followed one of the women back to the cocaine factory, leaping from roof to roof perhaps a bit more extravagant than necessary. He learned how people got into the building, and tucked the knowledge away for later use.

He tore his stitches again doing that, but patched himself up, since Claire was out of the picture. He begged the morning off of work, not like they did any work, since Nelson and Murdock were now Nelson, and Murdock, separately.

Later that night, went back and freed the workers. Of course, in the process he sort of got the building set on fire, and slightly beat up by an old woman who told him the workers blinded themselves, but all in a nights work.

Or something. He didn't know anymore.

 

He went to the office. It was that or go home, and neither option was appealing.

Karen was there, despite it being the middle of the night. Or maybe it was nearly morning.

She seemed even more on edge. Jumpy. Matt probably could have probed into it, asked some questions, but he really didn't have the time or the energy to focus on her problems when he had so many of his own. He hated the person he was becoming, one who lied to his friends and couldn't offer them help.

 

“I can't take another step,” he admitted, and Karen hugged him. It was nice, but it didn't make up for all the lies that were crushing him. He was suffocating beneath them, but at least it was the evil he did know.

“You're not alone,” she told him. “You never were.”

Matt just wished that was true.

 

* * *

 

Then Ben died. Was killed, actually, probably by Fisk, because Karen and Ben went to speak with his mother. A mother who apparently regaled them with the tale of how a young Fisk killed his own father to protect his mother from his beatings. Which, Matt would admit sounded like self defense and everything, but also sounded violent and gory and just paved the road for Fisk's current violent tendencies.

 

But Ben was dead and Fisk's mother disappeared and Karen seemed broken by the entire thing, and Matt and Foggy still weren't talking.

 

Matt didn't know what to do. He had absolutely no clue.

Without Foggy, he wasn't even sure what the point was anymore.

 

To make it worse, Foggy didn't even go to Ben's funeral. The day was cold, and it just seemed fitting that he had to suffer in the biting chill. Ben's wife didn't deserve that though, and Matt couldn't help but feel like she was only alone because of him, because of what he hadn't had the courage to do. If he'd just killed Fisk when he had the chance...

But no one could go back.

 

Father Lantom asked how he was holding up.

“Like a good Catholic boy,” Matt replied.

“That bad, huh?” he asked.

 _Worse,_ Matt didn't say.

 


	21. Chapter 21

After Ben's funeral was over, Karen went back to the office to get something, and Matt went to the gym. He had some rage to work out, and unfortunately, Ben's boss wasn't available to use as the subject of his anger. He'd have to settle for an opponent that wouldn't fight back for the time being.

 

He set his bag down on the bench and folded up his cane. Even without his senses, he wouldn't need it to get around the gym. He'd practically been raised in Fogwell's. He could find his way around by memory alone.

 

Matt wrapped his hands up. It was almost soothing, because he knew it would lead to a release. No matter how many times his father told him to use his head over his hands, Matt couldn't deny that one was far better for stress relief.

 

How could Foggy have missed the funeral? Matt knew that Foggy liked Ben, so it couldn't have been that. And even if he'd hated Ben, he should have been there for Karen. She was devastated over his death, probably worrying that it was somehow her fault for pushing him towards the story. And maybe it was partially her fault. Matt couldn't say. But he certainly wasn't going to tell Karen that while she was grieving and couldn't do anything about it. They all had to move forward in order to put Fisk away.

 

The bag bounced back and hit his side where Nobu's most vicious wound was still healing. Matt winced, and took a moment to breathe through the pain. It would no doubt leave a fantastic scar that Claire would tut over, were she around to see it.

 

He wondered what Foggy thought about his, when he first saw them. Surely he'd seen them. He'd been mostly naked on his floor, he had to have seen them. And Foggy knew about scars. He had them on his arm from the incident in their first year of law school. Matt could feel them, sometimes, if he felt carefully, when holding Foggy's arm, or grabbing his wrist to stop him from reaching out. He wondered what they looked like, pale against Foggy's already pale Irish skin. What did Foggy think of them? Was he ever ashamed? What did he remember when he saw them?

 

Matt knew he had a lot of scars, far more than Foggy. But that wasn't his fault. It wasn't really Foggy's fault that he had scars either.

But Matt's were mostly places that could be hidden, under dress shirts and pants at the office and t-shirts at the beach. His were larger, trauma induced with stitch marks on some of the later ones, after he'd had Claire, whereas Foggy's were patterned, in a place that clearly indicated self inflicted.

 

Matt had been so scared when he realized that Foggy had done them to himself. Maybe he didn't realize what he was doing at the time, but to think that Foggy could have died in their room while Matt slept chilled him to his core. He could protect his friend from muggers, assassins, various thugs, but he couldn't protect Foggy from himself.

 

Hitting the bag again, Matt realized that Foggy probably felt the same way. Foggy could protect Matt from open man holes, walking into traffic, falling down stairs, but he had no clue how to stop Matt from going out and confronting criminals.

In fact, Matt reflected, Foggy might have preferred his injuries were self inflicted. That was easier to talk about. There was no internet article on how to talk your friend out of being a vigilante. Although knowing Foggy, he could find it. If it didn't exist, he would write it.

The thought almost made Matt smile.

 

He was so distracted in his own guilt and the rhythmic sound of his hands hitting the bag that he almost missed Foggy's arrival. It was a surprise. Foggy had seemed adamant about not rekindling his friendship. If that was what this was. Foggy could just have come to yell at him some more though.

 

Matt ignored him for a few minutes, until it became clear that Foggy wasn't going to say anything. His breathing didn't change.

 

“How'd you know I was here?” he asked quietly, taking a break from the bag.

“I've known about your outlet for a while. Figured it might have had something to do with your dad, or maybe it helped with the depression, but now I know better.”

Of course. Foggy had probably know about his outlet since law school, when Matt went to the gym as often as he could in an attempt to quell the rage and focus his energy on something productive.

“It does help,” he told Foggy. He hit the bag a few more times. “Why weren't you at the funeral?”

Foggy winced. “Is Karen mad?”

He sounded genuinely worried. “She's pissed,” Matt admitted. He left the bag and began to unwrap his hands.

“I'm sorry,” Foggy muttered.

 _Too little, too late. You're lucky she's so forgiving._ “Tell her, not me.”

Foggy shook his head but didn't announce it. “No, this one's for you. I'm sorry for walking out the other night.”

Matt shrugged, focusing on his hands instead of looking towards Foggy. “You had every right to be angry.”

“I was angry,” Foggy admitted. “I was angry and disappointed and scared and betrayed. I was kind of a mess.”

Matt tilted his head, trying to line up symptoms with what Foggy was describing. It didn't sound like a depressive or hypo-mania episode, but that didn't mean it wasn't. Or it could have been a mixed episode. Or was that unfair, dismissing Foggy's reaction as part of his mental illness? Where was the line? Matt didn't know, so he just asked. “You taking your meds?”

“Don't,” Foggy warned. His heartrate increased. Not the right thing to say then.

“This isn't about the meds. This is not about me being bipolar. This is me, worrying about you, because you're a fucking vigilante!” He took a deep breath, and his heartrate slowed a bit. “But we can't fight about that now. I'm here because we need each other. We have to work together to stop Fisk.”

Matt shook his head. Didn't he understand that the whole reason Matt hadn't included him was to keep him safe? “I won't have you getting hurt. I don't want you or Karen at risk. I need to do this on my own, to stop this before there's no one else to bury.” _I can't bury you or Karen,_ he didn't say.

Foggy huffed at him. “Matt, last time you fought Fisk, you nearly died. You can't do that again. I won't let you.” _I'd like to see you try._

“Then how are we supposed to stop him?” Matt asked. He tried to hide the desperation, but knew that some of it leaked out. Foggy always was good at reading people, and especially him.

“By using the law,” Foggy told him confidently. Matt knew most of it was a facade.

Matt tossed the tape back into his bag and picked his cane up. “I thought Nelson and Murdock was over.”

Foggy shrugged. “Maybe it is. But there's nothing I want more than to find a way back to what we were before, but I don't know if we can,” Foggy admitted.

_Oh god, if only we could. I want nothing more than for that to happen, but it can't. We both know that, and it's killing us._

“No, we can't. But maybe we can find a way to move forward, Foggy.”

Foggy nodded. “I just nodded,” he told Matt.

“Yeah,” Matt sighed, unfolding his cane and shrugging his bag over his shoulder. “I could tell.”

“So... explain more of this world on fire thing to me. I was kind of drunk last time. And angry. Really angry.”

Matt attempted a smile, and didn't risk it by taking Foggy's arm. “Well, you have to think of it as more than five senses.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

He took down Fisk.

 _He_ took down Fisk.

He took down _Fisk._

 

He was still reeling over that when Brett showed up. Matt just parkoured away, ignoring his questions about what he was called. As far as he was concerned, Devil of Hell's Kitchen could stay or go. He didn't have any opinion either way.

He was happy that it was Brett though. Matt liked the guy.

 

He went to Foggy's apartment later that night, mostly to reassure him that he was okay, and to get some ice for his ribs and face and everything.

 

“You did it,” Foggy said. He sounded surprised. Matt didn't blame him, since he was pretty surprised too.

“Yeah,” Matt agreed, breathless with the frozen peas pressed against his ribcage. Foggy was poking at a wound on his head with a wet cloth. It really wasn't helping, but Matt wasn't going to argue.

 

Foggy's breathing changed, and Matt tilted his head so he'd be ready to answer Foggy's question.

“What... what does it sound like, out there. Now, I mean. Now that he's gone.”

 

Matt closed his eyes. He took a measured breath, careful not to jostle the peas, and listened.

“Quiet,” he told Foggy after a moment. “Quieter.”

He smiled a little bit. “It's nice.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Daredevil wasn't entirely awful. Certainly easier to say. Better for headlines, he supposed.

Foggy seemed to think it was funny, but he was still getting used to the idea of Matt as a vigilante, and his new costume. (Matt might have agreed about the horns, but Melvin was just so damn proud of them.)

 

They hung their sign up, and it was like that made it official, a tiny ceremony of three outside of their building.

 

“Nelson and Murdock, avocados at law,” Matt said quietly, running his fingers over the sign.

He heard Foggy beam, and imagined it could light up an entire room. He smiled back.

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, sorry it took so long for me to post this chapter. Perhaps it was because I didn't want this story/series to end. I am going to call it done for now, but there could always be more in the future.

Despite the city being quieter, Foggy still worried over Matt more than he thought strictly necessary. He ever went so far as to have him over almost every weekend to get him drunk. Being drunk usually led to them talking about their feelings. Matt suspected Foggy was using it as a form of therapy, since he hadn't gone more than the once after their drunken romp more than a year ago.

He didn't always remember what they'd discussed, which he supposed was the point.

 

One night, one awful night, after he'd failed terribly at his other job, Matt wanted to get drunk enough to tell Foggy how he really felt. He didn't quite make it to that level of drunkenness, but he did manage to tell his friend. Using words.

 

There was a twelve year old that he hadn't been able to save. He heard the screaming and headed down to the docks to help her, but they were prepared. They took him down and he could only listen as she was packaged into a shipping container and sent away. He could only image the horrors that awaited her.

He slunk back home to Foggy after that, largely uninjured. He figured getting drunk couldn't hurt, and told Foggy as much.

 

After they were both suitably morose and inebriated enough to be passed the pleasantly buzzed state, Matt started in on the real issues. He might have led Foggy to believe he was more drunk than he actually was, which was hardly his fault.

 

“I'm depressed you know Foggy,” Matt started. “Depressed,” he repeated, getting a feel for the word in his mouth. He hadn't really said it out loud much before.

“Yeah Matty, I know,” Foggy replied. “I've known for a while. How are you doing though?”

Matt frowned, considering the question. “Better,” he decided. “My best friend isn't as mad at me anymore, which is nice. He found out my secret,” he whispered to Foggy. It was a bit louder than he'd intended. He sighed and rolled over, then changed his mind and rolled back. “I thought I was going to lose him forever,” Matt admitted. “I don't know if I could have survived that.”

No, he definitely couldn't have survived that. Without Foggy, there was no reason to try anymore, as sad as that sounded. And maybe they were a bit too codependent, but sometimes you just needed a reason to be and you couldn't help if it was another person.

“He's always been there, you know? Always. He's pretty great.”

He felt Foggy's smile.“I'm sure he thinks the same about you.”

“Like, I know sometimes he's depressed,” Matt continued, because if he stopped, he wouldn't be able to stop thanking Foggy for not hating him, for not leaving him, for always coming back. “He takes meds for it, but they don't always work. I can tell,” he said sagely. “So I know he's depressed, but he's always there for me. Like, I don't know how he does it, but he's always there.” Matt's face softened. “I worry about him though. There was this one time in college... I thought he was trying to kill himself. I was scared that he was.”

He would never be able to forget that night, waking up to Foggy's panicked voice and the smell of blood that he couldn't get out of the room for weeks. He never really could, it just sort of faded like the scars on Foggy's wrist.

“Have you ever... you know, tried it?” Foggy whispered, interrupting Matt's train of thought.

Matt sighed. “Not really. There was this one time he found me on the roof. He thought I was going to jump. I might have,” he added. “But not to die. I was listening. I need to get one of those... shooty hook things so I can jump off stuff and not die.” He couldn't remember the word, but he knew it was a real thing. Maybe Melvin could set him up with one.

“So you've never tried to kill yourself?” Foggy asked quietly. He sounded worried.

Matt shrugged, and then changed his mind, shaking his head. “Nah. But sometimes I just sort of...” He drifted a hand through the air. “You know, just sort of... want it all to stop? Coast along for a while.” He sighed again. “Sometimes I'm reckless. I don't try to die, but if it had happened...” he shrugged. “Oh well.”

He couldn't ever kill himself. It was still a sin, as much as if he'd taken someone else's life.

“Still?” Foggy asked.

“Oh. No. Not anymore. I have too many things to live for.” You. Karen. Our business. The city. So many people needed him so much. And maybe obligation wasn't the best reason to stay alive, but sometimes it was all he had, and it had to be enough.

“That's good to hear Matty,” Foggy told him, patting his hair down.

Matt curled into his touch. He couldn't help the happy humming that escaped. And he might have forgotten to be as drunk.

“Thanks buddy,” he murmured. “For everything. Really.”

Foggy startled a little. He clearly wasn't drunk enough to let that go. Hopefully he took it well.

“No problem buddy,” Foggy said after a moment.

Matt smiled and closed his eyes. He was... content.

It was a good feeling.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the song The Death of Me, by City and Colours.
> 
> That song, as well as All These Things That I've Done were kind of the soundtracks for this story.


End file.
